The Senator in the Scarecrow
by Mis Chi Evous
Summary: It's August in western Kansas and a Senator's gone missing. When a body shows up in a field of milo, the President himself wants only the best investigating the murder. Takes place following the separation at the end of S5.
1. One: A Call From the Wizard

**Author's Note**: I live in Kansas, and so every place mentioned in this story is very real, and is some place I have been myself (or is based on some place I have been myself). Butch's is located in Decatur, Kansas, if you'd like to pull out a map and see where we start our journey. Also, the narration is intended to be juuuust this side of noir, as a stylistic exercise.

One more thing, then I'm done, I swear! This story is themed after _The Wizard of Oz_. Because really, who can resist? On with the show!

**Chapter One: A Call From the Wizard**

August in Kansas. Hotter than a bitch in heat and so muggy that sweat sticks to skin instead of leaving for the air. A storm broke over the horizon, thunder booming across plains that only non-natives call flat.

Kansas is only flat from a plane.

One hundred and fifty years ago, wagons rolled over these hills, moving steadily onward to the Rockies and the west, and the promise of land in Oregon. Now beat-up pick-up trucks bounce along dirt roads, rattling and wheezing with the effort of eeking out a living from a land that's naturally dry and colorless. Driven by men with smoker's lungs and skin wrinkled and brown from constant sun, that morning, several of them drove along the way, pulled off the road and into Butch's.

A grocery store, coffeehouse, gas station and bar, Butch's hopped only two times of the day: seven o'clock, when the farmer's came in to get their mid-morning coffee with their diesel, and after nine o'clock, when the farm hands made their way into town from the various farms and celebrated long into the night. They spoke Spanish or sometimes Ukrainian, and they only stayed long enough to harvest before they were gone.

The morning thundershower was just about finished making noise when the doorbell at Butch's jingled. It was a bit too early for it to be the first of the coffee rush, so Marge looked up from her counter with some degree of interest. She'd been working the counter at Butch's during the busy season since before she'd married Darren and had three children, and that had been some forty years ago, back before folks had started leaving in droves. Anything out of the ordinary sparked Marge's interest, because "out of the ordinary" was so rare.

Sheriff Brainard, not a regular by any means, since he was based in the county seat of Oberlin, stepped through the door and tipped his hat wearily at Marge. "Howdy."

"Hey-uh, Sheriff. Here for a little morning coffee?"

"Something like that," he said, rubbing his eyes. "Got a little bit of business to take care of over at Reddinger's."

Marge raised her carefully-plucked eyebrows. "What kind of business? Reddingers' are usually quiet folk. Don't get any trouble from any of them or their boys."

"Their youngest boy took a bit of a fright earlier this morning when he went out to do his chores," the Sheriff said with an expressive roll of his eyes. "Says there's a real body in his scarecrow. I'm legally obligated to check it out."

Marge felt a cold chill run right through her. "Well, there's a story for the record books."

"Wouldn't be the first time some kid overreacted," Sheriff Brainard said, but it wasn't necessarily true. This was farm country. Kids around here got used to death and life at a pretty young age.

Marge handed him his cup of coffee and tapped her finger on the counter. It was already shaping up to be one incredibly _out of the ordinary_ day.

* * *

Hacker's phone rang and he picked it up immediately when he saw the phone number flashing across his screen. "Hacker," he said brusquely.

"Deputy Director Hacker, the President wants to thank you for all of your assistance in the recent months."

"Uh, thank you, sir," Hacker says, sitting down. It's not every day he got a phone call from the White House Chief of Staff.

"We've got a little problem we were wondering if you could help us out with."

"I'm sure I'd love to do what I can."

"We've got a missing Senator, Deputy Director, and a body out in the middle of bumfuck, Kansas, that looks like it could be him."

"That's KBI jursidiction, sir," Hacker said. "Even with him being a Senator. The locals probably don't want us to stick our hands in it."

"From what they're telling me, it's not a sure thing that it's the Senator, Deputy Director. They're saying they can't recognize him, given that he's mostly decomposed. And he's hanging from a post. Stuffed with straw."

"Come again?"

"The president is asking you to take a look into this, Deputy Director. Senator Williams was a big supporter in the previous campaign, and a close personal friend. We want your best."

"Ah, yes, well." Hacker coughed. "That's a going to be a little bit difficult, you see."

"Why is that?"

"My best is currently on military leave – for the next 48 hours, sir. He's been training snipers in Afghanistan. He just got back to the city, sir. I was planning on giving him some personal time."

"If you say he's your best, then give me his name, we'll get him there."

Hacker coughed. "And the other half of my best will be arriving in D.C in three and a half hours from Indonesia."

"I'll need their names, Director Hacker."

"Temperance Brennan and Seeley Booth, sir."

"Good. We'll have them on a plane to Kansas City by the end of today. And Hacker?"

"Yes sir?"

"This conversation doesn't leave this room. We aren't certain it's the Senator, and we aren't going to do anything until we know for sure."

"Yes, sir."

* * *

The plane taxied to a stop and the passengers started to rise from their seats, reaching overhead for bags before the stewardess gave permission. Doctor Temperance Brennan snapped shut her phone and started to reach for her leather bag when the flight attendant, who had been annoyingly perky during the entire international flight, tapped her on the shoulder.

"Dr. Brennan?"

"Yes, that's me," Temperance said, as she turned to the woman.

"When we unload the plane, we'd like for you to remain here."

Temperance raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

"There are some folks who are looking to see you. They made it very clear to me that it would be easier if you would just stay on the plane."

"I don't understand," Temperance said. "Is this some kind of... welcome-back-to-the-country joke?"

"I don't believe the Director of the FBI jokes, ma'am."

* * *

"Here's the thing," Booth said into his cell phone. "I'm getting processed out of the Army today. Then I want to go see my kid. I've just spent a year in Afghanistan, and I think this country owes me some time off before they start yanking my chain again."

"Booth, I'm sorry," Hacker said, on the other end of the line. "Believe me, if it were my choice, I wouldn't do this to you. But the President wants the very best on this, and I didn't lie to him when I said you were the best."

Booth rubbed his eyes. "Hacker, I'd like to help you, really I would, but I've got stuff I'm supposed to do today so that the Army no longer owns my soul."

"It's amazing what a call from the White House can do, Booth," Hacker said smoothly. "In a few moments there's going to be a knock at your door. You're going to want to answer that. Grab a duffel bag, pack for a couple of weeks."

"Where the hell am I going?"

"At this time, that's classified. I'll say this. Pack for wind and sun and heat like you wouldn't believe."

"No disrespect, Hacker, but you're a real son of a bitch. Are you going to call my kid and apologize to him?"

"Booth, I'm sorry, I really am." Hacker coughed. "You'll be leaving in an hour and a half, Booth. I'll call you once you're on board the plane with details."

The line went dead, and Booth used his recent exposure to young, hot-headed soldiers as inspiration for a profane diatribe that would have made the Virgin Mary blush.

* * *

"I want to say first that I extremely resent this invasion of my private time," Temperance said stiffly. "I do not appreciate being manhandled by the federal government."

"I assure you, Dr. Brennan, we would never have intruded like this if there was any other way to handle the situation," the fresh-faced FBI agent named Donaldson they sent her said.

"I would be more cooperative if I understood exactly what the situation is," Temperance insisted.

"Dr. Brennan, we are waiting on the arrival of just one more person, and then we can take off and inform you of our destination, among other things."

"You don't understand. I've been out of the country for a year," Brennan said firmly, "and my friends have been waiting for me, and if you think I'm going to _help_ you after you pull a stunt like this, then you are obviously more stupid than I originally gave you credit for."

"Jesus, they didn't kid about you, did they?" Donaldson asked, swallowing.

"Whatever they said, I'm sure it's been distorted by word of mouth."

"It's just that they say you're cranky."

"I'm only cranky when I'm surrounded by idiots," Temperance said, and she folded her arms over her chest and looked out the window.

* * *

"So, you're really not going to tell me what's going on?" Booth was sitting in the back seat of a government car, being escorted by two ridiculously young agents who wore sunglasses and were a little too quiet.

"Sir, we couldn't tell you even if we wanted to," one of them said. "We weren't given information about the mission, just to escort you to the airport and drop you off."

"Great." Booth flopped back against the seat. "Just great. I'm going to bust Hacker's balls. He _does_ know I've just gotten off of a damn plane, doesn't he?"

"Yes, sir." The agent driving cleared his throat. "We're going to be escorting you around the back, sir."

"It's just Booth, guys."

"Yes, sir," they said in unison, and Seeley closed his eyes and looked up to the sky. The universe was really conspiring to annoy the crap out of him.

After an interminable amount of time, the door to the plane opened, and two agents dressed in black and sunglasses stepped in.

"Donaldson?"

"Yeah, Curry?"

"We've got him. He's just grabbing his bags. Wouldn't let us carry them."

Brennan rolled her eyes. That's just what she needed. Some macho jerk to bore her to death on the flight when she was supposed to be home, lounging in her bathtub and choosing what to wear the next time she saw...

Her eyes widened. "Booth?" She jumped to her feet.

"Bones?" His eyes widened and he dropped his bags and before she knew it, she was wrapped in his arms in something very much i_unlike/i_ a guy hug.

For the first time, the day didn't seem like such a waste.


	2. Two: A Storm is Coming

**Author's Note**: Special thanks go out this week to** amilyn**, who was invaluable earlier this week in a conversation about Booth, post-Afghanistan.

**Chapter Two: A Storm Is Coming  
**

"Parker Booth!" Rebecca shouted up the stairs. "You need to get a move on! We're going to be late!"

"I can't find my _shoes_" the boy shouted down the stairs. "Do you know where I put them?"

"Did you look in the bathroom?" Rebecca asked, not so patiently. "This wouldn't happen if you would just put your shoes away!"

The telephone rang shrilly, and Rebecca fought the urge to curse as she ran to answer it. "Rebecca Stinson," she said breathlessly.

"Rebecca Stinson, are you the mother of one Parker Henry Booth?" A male voice asked on the other end of the line. Rebecca's blood ran cold.

"Yes, I am."

"Ma'am, I'm Deputy Director Andrew Hacker with the Federal Bureau of Investigation."

Rebecca's hands started to shake. She'd received a few calls like this in all of the time she'd known Seeley, but it always chilled her to the bone. "What happened to Seeley? Is he okay?"

"Uh – yes, ma'am, he's completely fine. In very good health, as a matter of fact."

Rebecca's eyebrows flew to her hairline. "How can I help you, then, Director Hacker?"

Hacker coughed and was silent for a few seconds. Rebecca could already tell she was going to end this call pissed off at someone. Probably Seeley. "Well, we've had to... requisition Booth, ma'am."

"You had to what?"

"There was a case, which he was uniquely qualified to work. I'm afraid we've had to pull him from the military a bit prematurely and send him out of state."

Rebecca ground her teeth. "You do realize that Seeley hasn't seen his son in a year, right?"

"Uh, yes, ma'am, I was made very aware of that situation when -"

"Well then, you realize this is completely unacceptable."

"Yes, ma'am."

"You're going to have to fix this, Director Hacker, because my little boy is upstairs, trying to find his shoes so that he can go meet his daddy."

"Ma'am, I'm sorry, but you know Agent Booth-"

"Yes, quite well, and I know you've probably jerked him around with words like 'duty' and 'honor' and I've got to tell you, I'm more than a little sure that you can just take those words and shove them up your ass, because I've got a nine-year-old boy who needs to see his father."

"Ms. Stinson, I -"

"I'm not budging on this, Director. You figure out a way to fix this. Did you send Seeley somewhere dangerous?"

"Uh, no. I mean, he's mostly in danger of getting a sunburn, but, given where he's been recently, that may not be too big a concern..."

Parker ran down the stairs and stopped at the bottom of the well, his eyes wide and filling with tears. Rebecca held up her finger. "Parker has sunblock."

"Ma'am, are you suggesting I fly Parker to... where I've sent Seeley?"

"I'm suggesting that Seeley Joseph Booth is a national _hero,_ who, after all he has done for this country, deserves to see his son. Don't you agree? Or shall I go to the paper with this story?"

"That would be – extremely inconvenient for me," Hacker said, almost inaudibly.

"I'm glad you see things my way. You call me when you figure out a plan." Rebecca hung up the phone decisively and opened her arms for her little boy to fly into.

"Mom? Where's Dad?"

Rebecca sighed. "We're going to have to wait just a little bit to see him, buddy. I'm so sorry."

"This sucks," Parker announced, and pushed away from her, running back up the stairs to slam his door shut.

Rebecca wiped her eyes. "Yeah, it does, little man. It does."

* * *

"What do you think?" Angela asked Hodgins, tugging on the shirt she'd selected from the closet.

"I think you look beautiful," Hodgins said, his eyes bright. Angela fought the answering smile that threatened to tug her lips up. He probably really did think she looked beautiful – every time he looked at her these last few months, it had been with so much love and joy and hope in his eyes it sent her flying.

They'd flown together at lightspeed – crashed into each other in a joyful collision. All of the heat, and all of the passion and lust and love between them had exploded. And, like the big bang – had created life.

Which was why, looking a little like the Goodyear blimp, she was standing in front of a mirror trying on maternity tops for her first day back at the Jeffersonian.

"I thought you decided yesterday to wear the blue one," Hodgins said, pointing at the top she'd thrown on the bed.

"I put it on, and decided I didn't like blue today," Angela said. "I felt like something more... uplifting."

"Then that's perfect," Hodgins announced, crossing the room and laying his hands on either side of her belly and pulling her close. "You look lovely, and we are gonna be late if we don't get moving."

"You're right," Angela said, leaning in and kissing him soundly. "Just one more top."

Hodgins laughed and rolled his eyes. "Okay."

* * *

Camille Saroyan thought about whistling. It was a good sort of thought – the thought she often had. As a kid in Philly, she wouldn't have thought twice about whistling, sticking her hands in her pockets and sauntering wherever she wanted to go. Now, though, there were concerns about professionalism and decorum. So in her mind, she whistled a jaunty tune as she cleared security and headed for her office in the Jeffersonian.

Today was going to be a good day. The return of Hodgins, Brennan and Angela... it would be like her little family was coming home to her, she thought, more than a little sentimentally. They'd be back to working with Booth. She knew nothing stayed the same – some things would certainly different, but at least it would be a little bit familiar.

"Dr. Saroyan?" One of the interns accosted her just as soon as she opened the door to her office.

"Yes?"

"Director Hacker's on line two for you."

Camille set her mouth in a straight line. "Okay. Thank you." Dumping her bag on the sofa she kept in her office, she reached for the multi-line phone, and took a deep breath. "Camille Saroyan."

* * *

"Agent Booth? Doctor Brennan?" One of the young FBI agents broke their hug. "Um, we're supposed to brief you now."

"How long is the flight?" Brennan asked, reluctantly letting go of Booth.

"Three and a half hours. Then there's a connecting flight and another hour or so in the air." The young man cleared his throat. "Sir? We have a lot of information to give you and not a lot of time."

"What's your name, agent?" Booth asked, narrowing his eyes.

"Uh – Donaldson, sir."

"Okay, Donaldson." Booth sat down in one of the seats, leaning back in it and throwing his arm over the chair that Brennan took next to him. "Brief us."

"Uh -"

"Are you ready, Agent? Because you have a lot information and not a lot of time," Booth said snidely. "You know, it's bad enough you people pull me away from my kid -"

"You haven't got to see Parker yet?" Brennan asked, her eyes wide.

"No," Booth said.

"_That_ is deliberately cruel," Brennan said. "You should have told Andrew -"

"Yeah, well, he wasn't up for negotiating much." Booth rose to his feet. "So. Donaldson. Enlighten us. What's so important you absolutely had to have me?"

"You know, Agent Booth isn't the only FBI agent in the country," Brennan said, seriously. "And I am not the only forensic anthropologist."

Donaldson swallowed. "It was... my understanding that the President asked for the best and Director Hacker felt – well, compelled to use the best."

Brennan rolled her eyes expressively. "Of course."

"All right, kid. You've got the attention of the best," Booth said, holding out his hand for the files Donaldson was clutching. "Let's hear it."

"Uh – okay. At oh-six-hundred hours this morning, Sheriff Brainard in Decatur County, Kansas, received a call about a decomposing body inside of a scarecrow in a field of milo -"

"Whoa. _Inside_ a scarecrow."

"Yes, sir. Preliminary reports indicate that the body was clothed in overalls and a gingham shirt and... stuffed with straw."

Brennan flipped up a page. "Has anyone touched the remains?"

"No, ma'am. They were told by the director of the KBI not to touch it until you got there, ma'am. They're a little concerned about preserving the remains, though."

Booth scoffed. "Great. What's going on?"

"Tornado warning across that part of Kansas. May not get any rotation, but there could still easily be 50, 60, 70 mile an hour winds, sir."

"I have to tell you," Booth said, sitting down in a chair. "I don't understand why this requires the best. They've got the resources to handle this in Topeka."

"Yes, sir. It's just that – it's just that Senator Williams had gone missing on tour in Salina, Kansas – about four hours from where the remains were found and... there are indications that the body might be his."

"What indications?" Brennan asked.

"A... watch. It's some kind of family heirloom," Donaldson said, leaning over to show Doctor Brennan a picture of the piece. "Engraved with the family motto -"

"Of course there's a family motto," Booth said under his breath.

"- of course, they'll want you to do a forensic confirmation."

"Of course," Brennan said quietly, studying the pictures in front of her, but saying nothing.

"What do we know about the victim?" Booth asked, reading though the Sheriff's notes. "How many people wanted him dead?"

"Well – that's a matter for some debate. In his own state, Williams was dwindling in popularity. He'd been for the bailout, signed some gun control and abortion legislation that wasn't doing anything for his image..."

"Any death threats?"

"Just your normal psychos," Donaldson said. "We've got a profiler going back through all of the ones reported to the FBI and we're in touch with his office in D.C. – they'll send you what they have once they gather it all together."

"How long had he been missing before his body was found?"

"Three days, ma'am."

"Hm, okay," Brennan said.

"What's up, Bones?" Booth scooted closer to her.

"It's just that... well, I'll have to examine the remains to be certain."

"You've got a feeling about something?" Booth grinned at her, his eyes twinkling.

"No, I've got an – idea, which I will not confirm or deny without empirical evidence. Not a... feeling."

Booth laughed. "Oh, Bones. And here I thought maybe you'd go changing on me."

"What?" Her eyes flew up to his and held there. "I have no way of objectively knowing if I've... changed. But I hope -"

The phone on board rang, and Donaldson held out the phone. "Agent Booth?"

"What?" Booth bit off.

"It's a Doctor Lance Sweets for you?"

"Okay, give me the phone." Booth viciously took the receiver from Donaldson. "Sweets. How the hell are you?"

"Special Agent Booth! It's good to hear your voice, man."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, kid. What's up?"

"Uh, two things. One. I'm going to be your profiler on this case and I can give you some prelims on your victim."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. I can tell you that he was a self-made man, a bit slimy to the touch. You're going to find a lot of people that were personally repulsed by him but were compelled to work professionally with him."

"Typical politician, then."

Lance laughed on the other end of the phone. "Well, yeah. I somehow doubt this was a personal crime, though."

"Oh?"

"It's too early to say with any certainty – I'd have to look at Doctor Brennan's report on cause of death and other injuries sustained, but given the location of the body and the method of... disposing of it, I'd say that you've got a killer who wanted to send a message."

"Yeah," Booth rubbed his eyes. "I was thinking that."

"And depending on whether or not they feel they've sent that message – there could be more bodies cropping up soon," Sweets continued.

"You know why I like talking to you, Sweets?"

"I'm professionally very helpful?"

"Because you're so full of good news."

"Oh. Ha." Sweets coughed awkwardly. "One more thing, Agent Booth?"

"What is it, Sweets?"

"I – uh. Director Hacker spoke with Rebecca this morning. If it's all right with you – I'll bring Parker down to see you this weekend."

Booth leaned against the wall, suddenly weak in the knees. "Sweets... man, I don't..."

"I know, it's a big deal to trust me with your kid, but Rebecca couldn't get away and I thought..."

"Sweets. Thank you." Booth coughed. "Thanks for volunteering. I... appreciate it. I'd like that, a lot."

"Awesome! Good. Well. Have a good flight. Say hello to Doctor Brennan for me."

Booth nodded. "Yeah. Thanks again, Sweets. Just... thanks."

He hung up the phone and hung his head. Bones was there in half a second, her hand reassuringly on his shoulder. "What did he want?"

"They're going to bring Parker to see me this weekend... if we're still out there."

Brennan smiled. "Oh, that's good."

"That's great, Bones." And he lifted his head, beaming at her. She lifted her hand, like she was unable to stop it, and cupped his cheek. Unthinking, he leaned into the touch.

She dropped her hand like she'd been burned. "I'm just going to finish reading the reports."

"Yeah... I should... do that, too." Booth grabbed his file and sat back down, flustered. He was even more confused when Bones sat down right next to him, crossing one leg over the other and reading, like nothing had ever happened.

He felt like thrusting his head out the airlock, but he focused on the file instead.


	3. Three: Welcome to Munchkin Land

**Author's Note**: Abilene is indeed the home of Dwight D Eisenhower, a young man who grew up on the wrong side of the tracks in a cattle town. It's a fun touristy destination with train rides, Victorian-era homes to tour, and, as the pilot says, the best fried chicken in America, available at the Brookville Hotel. However, most of our story continues to take place in western Kansas (which is NOT, as some Cretans would tell you, anything west of Topeka, but is rather anything west of Russell on I-70). Booth and Brennan will be spending time in Hoxie, Decatur, Oberlin and Colby, if you want to do your Googling.

Hodgins mentions the rather famous true-crime novel, _In Cold Blood_, by Truman Capote. Fun fact: I grew up 5 minutes away from where one of the most notorious murderers in American history went to elementary school. Cookies if you know which one of the Cold-Blooded Killers I'm talking about!

**Chapter Three: We'd Like To Welcome You to Munchkin Land**

Later, they would refer to the second leg of their journey as the "matchbox hell". They left their comfortable 200-passenger jet for something roughly the size of a pack of gum, with just barely enough room for Booth, Brennan and the unfortunate Agent Donaldson to squeeze themselves and their belongings into. They took off from the Kansas City Missouri International Airport and flew straight into a storm.

It was breathtaking and nauseating. Thunder boomed around them and lightning crackled. They could see the wind and the rain ravage the plains beneath them, even as it tossed the little plane around. The pilot maintained control, but even Booth was white-knuckled through parts of it.

"Can you imagine being on your way to Oregon or some other point west and _stopping_ here?" Booth asked incredulously at one point. "What makes a sane person say, 'I'd like to live somewhere where there's a good possibility a funnel will drop out of the sky and rip everything I know and love apart'?"

"I imagine they found beauty in it somehow, Booth," Brennan said, in that oddly pragmatic philosopher's way she had sometimes. "There's beauty in admitting life is short and beyond our control."

"Yeah, okay," Booth said, and Brennan got the feeling she'd not answered the question correctly in some way.

Within half an hour they were on the other side of the storm system and flying through calmer skies. The pilot leaned over his shoulder to address the three passengers. "We're about to fly over Abilene, Kansas, home of Dwight D. Eisenhower and the best fried chicken known to man. We'll be landing at the Hoxie airstrip in about an hour and a half, so... loosen your seatbelts a little. Should be smooth sailing from here on out."

Somewhere between Abilene and Hoxie, Booth's shoulders relaxed a little and Brennan's head lolled to the side in sleep, and Agent Donaldson breathed an audible sigh of relief.

Too soon for anyone's comfort, they were preparing to touch down – landing very uncomfortable on a patched runway. When the plane came to a complete stop, Brennan was completely still for a moment. "Don't move," she whispered to Booth.

"Why?"

"I have been on several small planes over the course of my career, but I always find they make me a bit nauseous. It's better to just... wait a moment."

"Yeah, of course Bones. Donaldson, grab the doc's bags, will ya? There you go, buddy. Way to be helpful." He tossed a satchel at the hapless agent and waited until Brennan opened her eyes. "Ready to rock and roll, partner?"

"I have some trepidation."

Booth leaned forward and tapped the pilot on the shoulder. "Hey, if there's anyway humanly possible you could get lost right now, I'd consider it a personal favor."

The pilot looked stunned for a moment, but then nodded. "Yeah, of course Agent Booth. Just... one second." He flipped a few switches and jumped out of the plane.

"All right Bones, shoot. Trepidation?"

"I was anticipating a brief period of time during which I could acclimate to working cases again," Brennan admitted.

"Me too, Bones. I'm probably a little bit rusty."

"Your investigative skills are instinctual, you've told me yourself," Brennan said with narrowed eyes.

"Yeah, Bones, but I've been tracking down insurgents in a high-mortality war zone. That's a different kind of investigating than poking around a Senator's life."

"And I have been rediscovering my love of ancient remains among other academics around whom I don't have to modify my speech," Brennan said.

"So, I'll be edgy, and you'll be blunt," Booth said on a sigh. "That's perfect, Bones."

"As I said before, I have some trepidation."

"I could kill Hacker."

"That would be inadvisable, as he is your superior and I have no wish for you to spend the rest of your life in prison."

Booth laughed. "Yeah, me neither."

"It is a very difficult situation he has put us in, however. I find that extremely frustrating, especially since he knows both of us moderately well."

"Listen, Bones. I don't want to know how well he knows you."

"Not biblically, if that's what you're referring to. Andrew and I never had sex."

"Jesus, Bones! What part of 'I don't want to know' did you not understand?"

"I assumed that was your way of attempting to find out information by pretending it was the information you did not want, thereby tempting me to give it to you."

Booth blinked. "I did not follow that at all."

"Angela may have explained it incorrectly, then."

"Or it's possible that I just can't follow Angela's Superwoman emotional logic jumps," Booth said with a shake of his head.

"In the time that I've known you, you've gotten extremely adept at following logical trains of thought."

Booth sighed. "Okay, Bones. Here's what we're going to do, okay?"

She laid her head back on the headrest and looked over at him. "Yes?"

"We're going to look out for each other on this one."

"I always look out for you."

"Yeah, but... a different level of looking-out. Like how after my brain surgery you kept an extra-close eye on me. We're going to help each other readjust, remember, okay?"

Brennan smiled slowly. "Because we're partners. And that's what partners do."

"Yeah, Bones. Because we're partners."

* * *

Hodgins and Angela strode hand-in-hand through the door of the Jeffersonian and up to Dr. Saroyan's office. Hodgins tapped lightly on the door and pushed it open.

"Director Hacker, you can't just... _abduct_ my scientists from airplanes!"

Hodgins raised his eyebrows and was about to pull Angela from the room when Cam held up a finger, indicating they should wait.

"I'm considering making a report to your superiors at the FBI. This is very unprofessional conduct." Cam tapped her fingers on her desk. "Dr. Brennan has other work here at the Jeffersonian that is considered top priority."

Hodgins and Angela sat on the sofa, hanging on to every word.

"Your apology is exactly what I wanted to hear, Deputy Director. In the future, when you want the services of one of my scientists, I expect you to go through the proper channels. Oh, and your FBI owes my Jeffersonian the cost of one 'Welcome Back, Dr. Brennan' cake. I'll send the bill to your office. No, thank you, Director Hacker."

She sat the phone down in its cradle and bent her head for a moment. Just as suddenly, she popped back up and beamed. "Jack! Angela! Welcome back!"

They rose and hugged her one at a time. "Hello, Cam. So nice to see you."

"Looking good, Dr. Saroyan."

"I never thought I'd say this, but I have really missed you two," Cam said with a grin. "Oh my God, Angela, you're huge!"

"Yeah, well, I never get tired of hearing that," Angela said, smiling wearily.

Jack grinned. "I'm trying to convince her to name the kid Paris."

"That name has been forever tainted," Angela said with a shake of her head. "We need a name that's about our child, not where she was conceived."

"Oh, so it's a girl?"

"We're trying to influence it that way," Jack said with huge grin.

"He is." Angela shook her head. "I'm switching pronouns every other time so it doesn't have gender identity issues. I want our child to come into the world completely comfortable with whatever they are."

Cam blinked. "Are you giving birth to an infant, or a thirty-five-year-old?" Both Angela and Jack stared at her so she cleared her throat. "That was, uh... Deputy Director Hacker of the FBI."

"What did he want? He can't steal Brennan away from us before I get a chance to tell her about the baby," Angela said firmly.

"You... might be too late for that," Cam said. "They've already assigned Brennan and Booth to a case."

"What a minute. Booth just got back from _Afghanistan_," Hodgins said, unbelieving. "There's got to be some kind of psych eval, at least, before they can send him back in the field."

"Brennan's been out of the country for a year," Angela said. "Doesn't she deserve some downtime?"

"You would think so," Cam said with a nod of her head.

"I guess I can head over there and help her unpack, since she'll be busy in the field," Angela said, worrying at her bottom lip.

"Oh no." Cam shook her head. "It's not a case here in D.C. They sent Brennan and Booth to Kansas."

"Kansas?" Hodgins' jaw dropped. "Why'd they send them to Kansas?"

"Something about a body in a scarecrow," Cam said with a shake of her head. "It's apparently a fairly important case. We'll have more info just as soon as Dr. Brennan can brief us on the actual remains."

"Kansas is creepy, did you know that? Ever read that book, _In Cold Blood?_ These two guys – they just up and decide to kill a whole family in their beds in Holcomb, Kansas. Just show up and slaughter the whole family. It took the FBI quite a while to catch them. Of course, that was before most of the advances in forensic science and... neither one of you is listening, and neither one of you cares," Hodgins said, ending his ramble with a sigh.

"Yeah," Cam said with a smirk. "And to think, Dr. Hodgins, I was getting nostalgic about you earlier."

"You were?"

"Yeah. It faded quickly. Welcome back, get back to work." Cam waved and sat back at her desk. Summarily dismissed, Angela and Hodgins left.

Stepping out of the plane was like stepping into warm water. Their lungs immediately clogged with the humidity and the heat that pressed down on them.

"Jesus," Booth gasped.

"Should get easier to bear once that storm moves in," a voice said from the bottom of the steps. "Shouldn't be too long now."

"Good. This humidity is unbearable," Brennan said, shaking her head. "And I've been in the jungle, so that's saying something."

"Yeah, well, welcome to Kansas. If you don't like the weather, wait twenty minutes. It'll change." At the bottom of the steps, a young brunette woman in a highway patrol uniform waited for them. When she reached the bottom, Brennan extended her hand.

"I'm Doctor Temperance Brennan of the Jeffersonian Institute."

"Special Agent Seeley Booth, FBI."

The woman smiled. "Lately of the Army, I hear. Thank you, Master Sergeant, for your service to our country. I'm Trooper Jessica Flint, with the Kansas State Troopers. I'll be taking you to the crime scene, if you'll follow me."

"You were, uh, expecting us, then?" Booth asked. "I mean, specifically _us_."

"Well, yeah," Trooper Flint said with a smile. "You'll find word gets around pretty quick around here. There's not much that goes on between here and the Colorado border that folks don't find out about."

"How long of a drive are we in for?" Booth asked.

"Oh, not long. Another twenty, twenty-five minutes or so? We're going to have to push it if we want to beat the storm. Dr. Brennan, your initial exam at the crime scene may be compromised. We've had storms rolling across the state all day. If there's any sign of rotation, your safety is our first priority."

"I'm sure we'll be fine," Brennan said firmly. "Booth is very annoying when it comes to keeping me safe."

Flint raised an eyebrow at him but Booth just shrugged. "Someone has to be. She's annoying about other stuff."

"Like what?"

"Can we continue this conversation in the vehicle, please? If my time with the remains is to be limited by the weather, then I'd like to arrive at the scene as quickly as possible," Brennan interjected.

"Oh, you know. Like that," Booth said with a wink, grabbing his bags, and striding off after Trooper Flint with a spring in his step.

They loaded all of the bags into a Ford F-250 with _Kansas State Troopers_ emblazoned on the side of it. Brennan and Booth slid in the back while the silent Agent Donaldson took the front with Trooper Flint.

"This vehicle seems very impractical for law enforcement," Brennan said as she buckled herself in.

"Yeah, well, you never know exactly what you'll be doing around here," Trooper Flint said with a laugh. "Sometimes all you need is the Taurus. And then other times, you find yourself hauling idiots out of six inches of mud in the middle of April. Then it's nice to have the truck."

"Do you do that kind of thing often?" Brennan asked.

"Often enough. There's not enough money in any of these county coffers to take care of the roads the way they should. Interstate's nice 'cause that's all federal money, and the state's pretty good about the highways, but the rural roads? Most of them are drive at your own risk."

"Speaking of driving at your own risk, did the Bureau requisition a vehicle for us while we're out here?" Booth asked.

"Oh yeah, definitely," Flint said, nodding her head. "They're bringing it out from Colby. It'll be at your bed and breakfast tomorrow morning for you."

"We're staying at a bed and breakfast?"

"It's the closest place around," Flint said, shrugging. "I mean, other than Norton, and that's a good forty minutes out from the crime scene."

"I am completely lost," Brennan said honestly. "Were are we headed?"

"Decatur county – just south and east of Decatur proper, really, in a field of milo that belongs to a man named Hebrew Rettinger."

"What's he like?" Booth asked, leaning forward. "It's his kid who found the body, right?"

"Yeah. Rettingers' are a decent sort. Run a mid-size cattle operation out here, like most folks. Got about, oh... two hundred, two hundred fifteen head of cattle running on about twelve hundred acres of sod, plus about eight hundred acres of the grains they raise to feed their own cattle."

Booth whistled. "Sounds like a good chunk of land."

Flint raised her eyebrows. "I guess it must, to you folks."

"What about Hebrew Rettinger? If the body out there is really Senator Williams, would he have a reason to want him dead?"

Flint shook her head. "Williams isn't too popular out here. He's too far liberal socially and not enough fiscally conservative, but Hebrew's never struck me as a political kind of animal. Really, he's like most sane folk around here. Leave their subsidies alone and they don't have much problem with the politicians."

"The boy that found him?"

"That'd be Hank." Flint grinned. "He's a pretty good kid, all things considered. Doesn't make stuff up. Does good in school, that kind of thing."

"Hmm," Booth said, and reached into his suit pocket. "Hey, uh, Bones? Did you bring a pad of paper?"

"You usually carry one in your suit," Bones said, her eyes wide.

"I usually get more notice than this," Booth hissed.

"Here you go, sir," Trooper Flint said, reaching in the glove box for something and handing it back to Booth.

"Thanks, Trooper."

"You're welcome, sir. We're just about here." Flint pulled off the highway onto a dirt road and drove for several more minutes until she pulled up to a barbed-wire fence, and Brennan and Booth could see the emergency vehicles arranged in a semi-circle just inside the barbed wire.

"I guess it's show time, eh Bones?"

"I guess so," Brennan said, half-smiling and getting out of the vehicle, shutting the truck door behind her firmly.

"Sir?" Trooper Flint turned to look at him. "My maiden name is Hubbard. My brother Justin mentioned you several times in his correspondence."

Booth went ashen. "I'm so sorry."

"No. He... died doing what he thought was right for the country he loved, and from his letters it sounded like he enjoyed learning from you, very much. I just wanted to say thank you, for everything you did for him."

Booth cleared his throat. "Small world, Trooper Flint."

"Very small, sir."

"Hubbard was a good man and a good soldier. I think about him all the time," Booth said, cupping her hand briefly. "You should be proud."

"I am, sir. Thank you."

Booth got out of the car and closed his eyes, the humidity pressing down on his chest like an anvil. He fought the urge to panic, and was mostly losing.

"Booth?"

He snapped awake. "Yeah Bones?"

"These people won't get out of my way."

He grinned and straightened his Cocky belt buckle. Reaching for his badge, he got in front of Bones. "All right, Federal Bureau of Investigation. Let my squint through, please."

As a path cleared toward the body, Booth found himself settling. He was back to Special Agent Seeley Booth – a role he hopefully remembered how to play.


	4. Four: Pelted by Apple Trees

**Author's Note: **This chapter was beta'd by the fabulous Kat Morning, who joined my team in order to make sure that the forensics I use are at the very least, glancingly accurate. With this update, the story will be caught up to where it is on my LiveJournal, and updates will come, at the very least, every Monday.

There is, indeed, a bed and breakfast in Hoxie, Kansas, but to the best of my knowledge, it is no longer operating. Perhaps I am wrong in this, though? I was unable to find information either way online.

Thank you to all the Kansans and Midwesterners that commented! I'm glad this story passes muster!

**Chapter Four: Pelted by Apple Trees  
**

There were more emergency vehicles than Booth would have thought they had in a rural area like this – cop cars and Trooper cruisers and KBI vans and an ambulance ready to transport the remains to the morgue at a moment's notice. And everyone stood around the corpse in a semi-circle, some of them looking busy and important on cell phones and snapping a few pictures half-heartedly, but others just looked... well, bored. Bones pushed through the gaggle of people and approached the body without stopping to talk to anyone, her brow furrowed in concentration.

It was a gruesome site, Booth had to give it that. Like some kind of sick Christ, the body hung nearly crucified on a wooden pole, dressed in the get-up of a farmer. There was little flesh left anywhere on the body that Booth could see – just decomposing and picked-over organs peeking through bone. On top of his head he wore a straw hat, and from every orifice, hay had been stuffed.

"Uh, who is that?" A voice next to him asked. It belonged to a rotund but youthful man, dressed in a police uniform. He looked as though he'd been standing outside sweating for ages, and Booth felt a little sorry for him.

"That's Doctor Temperance Brennan of the Jeffersonian Institution, the foremost leader in forensic identification in America," Booth said, reaching in his jacket pocket for the notepad Trooper Flint had given him. "And I'm Special Agent Seeley Booth of the FBI, her partner."

"Oh. Well!" The man brightened. "Welcome to Kansas! I hear they hauled your ass all the way out from D.C. Ain't that a bitch."

Booth laughed. "Yeah, it was... inconvenient."

"Sheriff Zachariah Brainard," he said, extending his hand for a warm and professional handshake. "Thanks for coming all the way out here."

"Yeah, well, that's what Bones and I do." Booth half-smiled and started when he heard his name.

"Booth!"

He jogged over to her. "Yeah, Bones? What do you need?"

"I'm going to need a larger perimeter than this. I'm finding it extremely difficult to work," she said in an undertone. "I feel as though I'm being observed on all sides."

"All right." Booth clapped his hands together and whistled. "Folks, if we could cut the personnel at the scene down to what is strictly necessary? Give your reports to Agent Donaldson here and then you're all free to go home, except the people responsible for transporting the remains."

"Thank you," Brennan said quietly, and approached the body once more, her keen eyes taking in everything.

Booth returned his attention to the sheriff. "So you got a call early this morning?"

"Yeah, about... oh... six-fifteen or so? Rettinger's boy Hank was out checking fence for his dad to earn some extra cash and noticed the scarecrow in the field was looking a little droopy. The kid had made it for a school project so he was concerned. Jumped off the ATV over there -" the sheriff gestured to an abandoned four-wheeler – "walked over to the scarecrow and had the fright of his life. Said it smelled awful but he didn't realize what it was until one of the fingers fell off. Ran all the way home and had a hell of a time convincing his folks it was real."

"So you drove out from Oberlin?"

"Yeah." The sheriff shook his head. "Don't have much cause to look at human bodies except to declare old geezers dead of natural causes, out here. And a few mangled people in farming accidents, hunting incidents, that kind of thing. I've never seen anything like that."

Booth nodded. "When did you first suspect it was the Senator?"

"Had a BOLO go out from the Topeka field office a few days ago – described the Senator, what he was wearing... the company he kept. I recognized the watch, called in the big boys, and... here you are, fourteen hours later."

"Victim is male," Brennan announced, straightening her spine. "Early to mid-middle age, it's too soon to tell for certain. Victim is..." she pushed aside the fabric of the shirt the remains wore, "stapled or otherwise affixed to wooden pole. Rate of decomp and scavenging suggests time of death was four to five days ago."

"Our guy went missing four days ago," Booth said, raising his eyebrows. "So they grab him from Salina, kill him, drive all the way out here with a corpse and set this up four days later?"

"I have not definitively identified these remains as Senator Williams," Brennan said.

"Yeah, Bones, I know. Just trying to wrap my head around everything, okay?"

The sky cracked with lightning, the wind picking up a little. Brennan returned to her task. "Booth? The distal phalanges of this victim have been removed... whoever did so cut through the bone."

"Great," Booth muttered.

"Completely unnecessary as there isn't enough flesh to pull a fingerprint from anyway."

"Well, maybe we've got a careful killer this time, Bones." Booth made a mark in his notepad.

"Possible," Brennan said, rolling the word around in her mouth. "I can't make any suppositions, however. Booth? I'm also missing several teeth."

"Is this going to slow down the identification process?" Booth asked.

"It depends on whether or not there are any other distinct markers Senator Williams has which can be used to identify him," Bones said.

"Right. Yeah, of course."

"Doctor Brennan? Agent Booth?" Donaldson approached them cautiously. "We've been under a tornado warning for some time and the locals are telling us we might want to get moving."

"Tornadoes are extremely rare," Brennan began to say, but Booth cut her off.

"Yes, but thunderstorms can be just as dangerous, Bones."

"Especially out here. There's no wind break for miles, ma'am. Storms like these often bring hail and seventy-mile-an-hour winds. We'd better pack up and get moving."

"All right," Brennan agreed reluctantly. "Take everything," she instructed the borrowed KBI techs. "Do not remove the remains from the pole. My assistants back in D.C will do that."

"Yes, ma'am," they muttered and set to work under her watchful eye.

Booth, for his part, kept one eye on Bones and another eye on the sky . He'd been all over the country – in Oklahoma and Texas and New Mexico and Louisiana ... but there was something terribly beautiful about a thunderstorm breaking over the horizon on the plains. The sky was an eerie grey-green, casting everything in a washed-out palate. The clouds picked up speed and height until every other second, it seemed, the sky cracked with lightning or boomed with thunder.

Just as the first fat raindrops were beginning to fall, Brennan allowed herself to be led away from the crime scene, still talking into her voice recorder. They climbed into the backseat of the Ford F-250 with the unflappable Trooper Flint and were soon back on the road.

* * *

It was late in the evening when the phone rang again. Parker was in bed, all of the lights were off, and Rebecca was enjoying a small glass of red wine and a good book. The sound interrupted her, but she sighed good-naturedly.

"Rebecca Stinson," she said into the receiver.

"Rebecca? This is Lance Sweets."

She smiled. "Oh hey."

"Listen, how is Parker doing?"

"He's disappointed and a little angry," Rebecca said honestly. "Like we all are, I think."

"Yeah." Lance sighed, on the other end of the line. "This was totally ill-timed, as far as Parker's development is concerned."

Rebecca laughed. In the year since Seeley had been gone, she'd gotten used to the young doctor's odd way of mixing the colloquial with the professional jargon that slipped so easily from his mouth. Booth had asked Sweets to keep an eye on Parker and Rebecca, and Sweets was as loyal to Booth as a cocker spaniel, Rebecca thought affectionately. Booth did tend to inspire that in the people that worked for him, so she wasn't too surprised.

She had been, however, a little surprised when, three months into Seeley's absence, she had needed Sweets' help. She'd been a single parent for all of Parker's life. There had been men that came and went, but she'd never let any of them really become her full partner. She was much too independent for that, so needing someone else's help – especially when that someone wasn't Seeley, who would fly across D.C in a minute if she'd asked him to for Parker – that had taken some getting used to.

Parker had been angry. And he was not, by nature, an angry kid. He was generous, warm and loving, almost to a fault. Adventuresome and outgoing and happy, that was Parker. But when Seeley hadn't come home: when Afghanistan had turned out to be further away than Parker had realized, and he didn't come back like he'd come back from being in a coma or being shot... well, Parker had been, for lack of a better word, pissed.

He took his anger out on toys and friends and Rebecca and finally... she'd called Sweets. A few sessions later, they sat down.

"Parker blames himself for his father's absence," Sweets had begun without prologue. "He feels that if he had not encouraged Booth to leave for Afghanistan, Booth would still be here."

Rebecca felt her mouth go dry. "Booth and I explained to him, though..."

"At this age, his sense of time is still developing – and a year of his life is a much more significant chunk of that time than it is of yours, for instance. So when you say 'it's just a year'..."

"Oh." Rebecca crossed her legs. "So what do we do?"

"Well, he's his father's son." Sweets shrugged his shoulders. "You and Booth have instilled a sense of responsibility and compassion in Parker that's really admirable. The problem is channeling that responsibility and that compassion outwards, rather than inwards."

"Excuse me?"

"Tell Parker often that... this is the kind of man his father is: when his country asks him to do something, Booth simply doesn't say no; that adults make up their own minds and they're responsible for their own decisions."

"Oh, okay."

"Allow him to make plans for what he'd like to do when his father is back. Encourage frequent and positive communication." Sweets shrugged. "Mostly, you do what you're doing now."

"And that will help?"

"Totally. The thing is, Rebecca," Lance leaned forward, kindness shining in his eyes,"every parent – single or otherwise – they want to protect their kids from the worst of the world. This isn't the first crisis Parker's had to face and it probably won't be his last. Let him be angry for a while, as long as he's respectful about it. Let him experience those emotions and help him identify them so that he can work through them. People leave, and people come back. Parker's used to that happening on a much more frequent scale with Booth."

Rebecca winced. "How much did Seeley tell you?"

"I honestly can't talk about it." Sweets shrugged. "Client-doctor privilege."

"I worry sometimes, about... if those early years have hurt Parker." Rebecca shook her head. "Maybe if I hadn't been so... angry, all of the time, at myself, and let Booth have Parker more often... It's just that..." she sighed. "You're going to think I'm nuts."

Lance smiled. "Probably not. Remember, my office hours are sometimes reserved by serial killers."

Rebecca narrowed her eyes but laughed. "Right. Well. It's just that Booth is... Larger-than-life, you know? Never lets up on himself. Works all of the time. Is good at... well, everything. And..."

"Parker's relationship with his father is not your relationship with yours." Lance crossed one leg over the other. "His relationship with Booth is hero-worship and emulation, and then it'll be adolescent frustration, but... Parker's going to turn out okay, Rebecca. You two are doing the best you can."

Months later, the sound of Lance's voice on the phone was somehow reassuring. "I told Hacker he had to fix it."

"He did," Sweets said reassuringly. "If it's all right with you, I'll fly Parker out to Kansas this weekend."

"Really?" Rebecca raised her eyebrows. "Lance, you don't have to..."

"No, it's totally cool. You probably need a break from the fatigue of daily single parenting and I would like a way to surreptitiously gauge how Booth's adjusting to civilian life."

"Dr. Sweets, are you using my kid as an in?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Rebecca laughed at Lance's serious tone. "Well, all right. At least you're honest about it."

"Good. If you'll meet me at the airport Friday morning at ten a.m.? Our flight leaves at noon. We'll be with Booth and Brennan by six p.m., eastern."

"Okay, good." Rebecca took a sip of her wine. "Lance?"

"Yeah?"

"Seeley's really lucky to have a friend like you."

She could practically hear the blush on the other end of the line. "Thanks, Rebecca."

* * *

The truck jerked to a stop, jolting both Booth and Brennan awake with a start. "Well, here we are," Trooper Flint announced, pointing at the large Victorian house in front of them. "Ethan and Danielle Hoake run the place, but they've gone to bed by now. Your keys will be under the front rug there. There are three bedrooms and three of you, so you'll have to fight it out for who gets what room."

"Have you stayed here before?" Brennan asked.

"No. Went to school with Breanna Hoake, their middle-daughter," Trooper Flint said. "I used to do the odd chores around here. I called earlier when it looked like we wouldn't make it away from the crime scene at a decent time."

Booth opened his door and walked around to help Bones out of hers. Of course, she was already halfway to the ground and gave him an odd look, but you couldn't fault a guy for trying.

They were strangely quiet as they made their way inside the darkened house, up the only flight of stairs and into the wing with the guest bedrooms. Booth opened the first door and, on discovering the pink quilt, quickly moved on. Bones might not take it out of some feminist principle, and he sure as hell wasn't sleeping on pink sheets. The bedroom next door was some soothing color of green, so he stepped inside and shut the door without saying goodnight.

His evening ablutions were quickly accomplished and he was about to tuck himself in when there was a knock at the door.

Quietly, he padded over to the door and opened it. It was Bones, of course, dressed in a white t-shirt three sizes too big for her and running shorts. It was more than a little hot.

"I just... wanted to tell you." Bones coughed and looked down, and somewhere in all of that, he could see the fifteen-year-old-girl that she must have been. "It was really good to be back working with you today, Booth."

"Yeah. It was. Good, I mean. To, uh... work with you." He grinned at her, unable to stop.

She still didn't raise her eyes to meet his. "And I wanted to tell you that... it was really hard not to see you for a year."

Just like that, his heart fell from where it had been flying high, shattering into a million pieces on the floor, because... she _had_ to know what something like this would do to his hope. Previously dead, it fluttered back to life, and Booth wanted to curse.

"I missed you too, Bones."

"I wish that our plans hadn't been interrupted. I miss Angela and Hodgins and Cam..." She shook her head. "It seems silly."

A year ago, this is when Booth would have invited her inside – helped her work through what she was feeling. Maybe he would have tortured himself by touching her hand, or her face. He would have reassured her that her emotions weren't ridiculous, but by the end of the night, she would have been soothed, but he would have been a mess. The desert had done a lot for him – thrown some things into sharp relief – chiefly among them a resolution to be the best friend he could be to Bones without existing in a state of constant pain. So he gently pushed her in the right direction. Away from him.

"No, Bones. It's not. Go ahead. Call Angela, surprise her. She's going to want to know everything, anyway."

Her eyes dropped to the ground but she smiled. "Yeah, she is." Her hand reached out, grabbed his, and squeezed. "I'm so very glad that you're okay."

He couldn't help but squeeze her hand back before he dropped it, just a bit too quickly. He saw the look of hurt flash across her face. "Thanks, Bones. Go call Angela. Have a good night."

And he shut the door.

* * *

She crawled into her bed, mortified. No matter how many times she practiced emotional exchanges, they never seemed to go her way. She was awkward, ungainly... socially inept, and no time apart had ever done anything to change that about her.

She needed a friend. Someone to remind her that she was good at something, that she had figured out much tougher things than how to get her best friend back after she'd single-handedly destroyed that relationship. She needed Angela.

Looking down at her watch, she sighed, but she reached for her cell phone anyway. Angela would probably pick up. The phone rang three times, but eventually... there was a gasp and then... "Sweetie!"

"Hello, Angela."

"Oh my gosh, it is good to hear your voice when I know you're on good American soil. How was Indonesia? Was it awful?"

Brennan laughed. "It wasn't, actually."

"I'll bet there were huge bugs and no running water."

"Safe assumptions, both."

"See, sweetie, that's the definition of 'awful'."

Brennan felt her heart growing lighter by the minute. "Maybe for you, Angela, but I'm sure that sounds like heaven for your new spouse."

"Not if he knows what's good for him," Angela growled, and Brennan sank back against the covers, already feeling more steady.

"How's Booth?"

"I can't be certain," Brennan said, wrinkling her brow. "I think... I think perhaps his time in Afghanistan was hard for him."

Angela hmmed in agreement. "Well, yeah, sweetie. War zone."

"Yes, but Booth has gone to war before."

"The first time you met Booth, he'd had years to deal with what he'd done. It's your turn to be patient, Bren. Booth will come back to you."

"He's here, though, Angela."

"I meant metaphorically. Sometimes when you go away – you come back in pieces. You know about that. Like when you've been to Guatemala and you accidentally break your ex-boyfriend's television with a baseball bat because a piece of you is still in Central America."

Brennan laughed. "Ange -"

"I'm just saying. Your Booth is in there. He came back from a coma, he's been shot, blown up..."

"Ange -"

"And he's always come back, right?"

Brennan sighed. "Right."

"So just wait, honey. He's been waiting for you. Whatever... revelations you might have had in that godforsaken jungle can wait, okay?"

"I know." Brennan sighed. "I know, it's just... hard."

"Yeah, well. Love stinks."

Brennan laughed, and rolled over on to her back. "Are you and Hodgins moved back from Paris completely?"

"Yes, but I have so much to tell you..." Angela started to talk about paintings, life in Paris, the return trip, the cost of shipping and... Brennan slowly fell asleep to the sound of her best friend's voice.


	5. Five: If I Only Had a Brain

**Chapter Five: If I Only Had a Brain**

_Bzzt. Bzzzt. Bzzzzt._

Booth opened one eye and watched his cell phone bounce around on the bedside table from the force of its vibrate function. He pressed the heel of his hand to his eye and yawned, grabbing the offending contraption and pressing it to his ear. "Booth," he growled.

"Morning, sunshine!" Hodgins' cheery voice made Booth groan. "Oh shit, man, sorry! Forgot the time difference. It's what? 6:30? Need me to break out my bugle? Play a little revellie to get you out of bed?"

"You're pretty damn cheerful for a squint who's already at work at seven in the damn morning."

"Angie's got morning sickness," Hodgins said blithely. "I was holding her hair at four in the morning, so we thought we'd just head on in to work."

"Wait. What? Angela's pregnant?" Booth sat up and ran a hand through his hair. "Bones didn't tell me."

"Oh, yeah." Hodgins cleared his throat. "She's been meaning to, I uh... I guess the right moment hasn't come up yet. Or something. Honestly, man, Angie's been weird about a lot of things lately. I'm just trying to make it through the next four months with my balls intact."

Booth laughed chuckled in sympathy. "I remember how that goes. Well, hey. Congratulations, Bug Man."

"Thanks." Booth could hear the pride shining through Hodgins's voice. "I'm calling because we got the first shipment of evidence this morning. They flew it in special. I guess when a Senator's widow has the President on the phone, things move a little quicker than normal."

Booth grimaced. "Yeah, well. Some things never change."

"Ain't that the truth. Well – just wanted you guys to know we got your evidence. Clark and Wendell are going over the bones now and I'm looking at all of the soil and surface particulates. Should have a report for you in the next couple of hours – at least preliminary."

"Great, good." Booth pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to think despite his jet lag-induced stupor. "Hodgins?"

"Yeah?"

"Why are you telling all this to me, not Bones?"

"Wanted to say welcome back, man." Hodgins' voice was warm.

Booth coughed, extremely uncomfortable. It was too early to start this emotional shit – too early to confront how hard it had been to leave his makeshift family a year ago, no matter how much he had thought it was the right thing to do. "Thanks, Hodgins. I'll talk to you when you've got bugs and stuff for me."

"Great. Talk to you then."

Booth rolled over, punched his pillow and sighed. If he was lucky, he would get another half-hour of sleep before his body insisted he wake up. He hadn't had any time to adjust to the time difference, and the four hours of sleep he'd managed to get after their late night at the crime scene left him still exhausted to the bone.

There was a knock at the door. "Agent Booth?" came an unfamiliar woman's voice.

Biting his lip, he rolled over to face it, counting to ten in his head. "Yeah?"

"Breakfast goes on the griddle in ten minutes if you want to get it while it's hot."

Cursing the weariness that plagued his body, Booth acknowledged that he wouldn't get any more rest tonight. Every muscle in his body was aching as his feet hit the floor. The wind and the rain aggravated old injuries: ribs that still burned with the memory of being blown apart, feet that remembered being beaten with pipes.

He walked to his in-suite bathroom and flipped on the light, staring at the man in the mirror there for a long moment. There was a time when he would have been surprised at the man staring back at him – would have wondered where the lines and the gray hairs had come from – but now he knew. He'd used his body as a tool, as a shield, as a weapon, and now it was paying him back. For all of the care he took, his life was etched into his bones, sinew and tissue.

Which was good, when it came right down to it, Booth had long ago decided. That meant there would be something for Bones to look for, if she ever needed to – something which had been unexpectedly comforting for the last year.

He brushed his teeth efficiently, stepped into the shower and turned on the spray, the warm water soothing away some of the deeper aches and pains. When he got out, he was once again in front of the mirror. He contemplated his hair for a moment. He no longer had to conform to regulations, so... with a grin, he spiked it a bit with his fingers, gelled it and walked naked into his room.

He heard the gasp before he processed exactly what had happened.

"Booth!" Bones said, flushing red and focusing pointedly on his face. "I was just, uh... seeing if you were ready to go down to breakfast."

"Jesus, Bones, don't you knock? Normal people knock!" He reached for a pillow and covered up the relevant bits.

"I did knock," Bones said, "but I thought perhaps you had slept through your alarm. I'd only just stepped inside, I swear... I'm just going to, uh... step outside. Again."

"That's a good idea," Booth said, unable to keep the sarcasm from coating his tone. "How about I meet you downstairs for breakfast, okay Bones?"

"Yes. I will see you shortly. That is to say... I meant quickly. Not to impugn your sense of masculinity which may or may not be linked to the length of your..."

"Bones! Seriously?"

"Stepping outside now." She grinned mischievously. "Although for the record, Booth? Very impressive."

Booth sighed and looked down. Very impressive indeed. Nothing like Brennan catching him naked first thing in the morning to wake every single part of him up.

* * *

"These remains were shipped very quickly," Clark said to Cam as he was removing them from the carefully packed boxes.

"Yes, well, there are a number of people looking for a quick ID and a quick close on this case," Cam said, crossing her arms over her chest.

"The truth takes as long as it takes," Clark said, absently.

Cam shook her head. "My God, she's gotten to you, too." At his sharp look, she coughed. "Not that that's a bad thing."

"There's something funny about the weight of these bones." Clark picked up a metacarpal and studied it carefully. "Could be osteoporosis... something else causing loss of bone density."

"Brennan says we've got a middle-aged male on our hands," Cam says. "That would be about right, right?"

"Osteoporosis is more common in females than males, but it also affects men," Clark agreed. "If the Senator were afflicted with such a condition, it would be in his medical records."

"Very true," Cam agreed, reaching for the file with just that information to hand to Clark.

"Clark!" Angela gasped from the bottom of the forensic platform. "Aren't you looking just... delicious?" She licked her lips in an exaggerated expression of interest, and Clark coughed uncomfortably.

"It's nice to see you too, Mrs. Hodgins," he said formally.

"Oh, just Angela," she said with a wave of her hands. "All that 'Mrs' crap makes me feel old." She pushed aside her lab coat to put her hands on her hips and Clark's jaw dropped.

"Are you pregnant?"

Angela narrowed her eyes. "No, sweetie, I just ate too much patisserie in Paris."

"Ha, Angela," Cam said, shaking her head. "Yes, she is, Dr. Edison."

He smiled genuinely. "Congratulations, Angela."

"Thanks, Clark," she said warmly. "Isn't that a bit personal for you, though?"

"I can congratulate a colleague on a baby," Clark said defensively. "That's entirely appropriate."

"What can I do for you, Angela?" Cam asked, leaning over to sign something an intern handed her.

"I was hoping you could special order some more of those crackers in the vending machine? They say morning sickness is supposed to go away after the first trimester but I'm telling you, I'm puking night and day and those don't taste nearly as bad on the way up as some of the others do."

Clark paled. "That was too personal for me."

"Absolutely, Angela," Cam said with a smile. "Cheer up, Dr. Edison. Only four more months to go. You'll get me an update on the remains as soon as you have something?"

"Yes of course, Dr. Saroyan." He removed the skull from the box, set it on the table and moved to remove another bone when his eyes widened. "Uh, Dr. Saroyan?"

She paused on her way down the forensic platform. "What is it, Dr. Edison?"

"I may have something for you," Clark said.

"Already?"

"Yeah." Clark shook his head. "This is going to be a weird one, I can already tell."

"The best ones always are."

* * *

"Oh, Mrs. Hoake, this looks amazing," Booth said, watching with wide eyes as she piled bacon high on a plate, crispy and thick.

"Thanks." Mrs. Hoake, a woman of about sixty with weather-lined skin and grey hair said with a smile as she put the plate on the table. "They tell me you're a vegetarian, Dr. Brennan?"

"Yes. I hope it won't be an inconvenience," Brennan said with a nod.

"We don't get many vegetarians out here, but we can make do for you. I made you a nice bowl of fruit, just there," Mrs. Hoake gestured at the fridge with her head. "There's also some rice milk, if you'd like that for cereal or whatever else might strike your fancy. You folks are welcome to anything in the kitchen as part of the price. We'll provide you with two squares a day: breakfast and dinner. Lunch you're on your own for. They tell me you'll probably be running around at irregular hours anyway, right?"

"Our schedule does tend to be unpredictable while working a case," Brennan said helpfully.

"Well, then I'll just make enough for you, leave the leftovers in the fridge," Mrs. Hoake said with a grin. "Used to do that for my boys. It should be easy enough to fall back into the habit. Where's your friend?"

Booth and Brennan looked at each other, a little guilty at having forgotten him. "Donaldson?" Booth asked. "I guess I forgot he was with us."

"Booth and I are unaccustomed to having anyone else with us," Brennan said, watching as Mrs. Hoake's eyebrows rose. "Normally we conduct our investigations alone."

"I doubt Donaldson's going to be around for very much longer, Bones," Booth said, snagging a piece of bacon and biting into it with relish. His eyes closed in delight. "Oh, that is good."

"It's the difference between buying straight from the hog farmer and getting that stuff you can get a the grocery store," Mrs. Hoake said authoritatively. "Don't know how you folks on the coast survive."

"Urgh," Booth said in strangled pleasure. "Ignorance, apparently. We don't know what we're missing."

"You look like you appreciate a good steak."

Booth's face lit up. "I've been overseas for a year, ma'am. A steak would be..." he waved a hand. "It would be just like coming home for real."

"Where overseas?" Mrs. Hoake asked, reaching into the freezer and pulling out a package of T-bones without any more fuss.

"Afghanistan," Booth said simply.

"Oh." Mrs. Hoake's eyes widened. "Well, then I guess the only thing to say is thank you. And tell you that you're really going to like this steak, I can promise you that."

Booth beamed at her. "I'm really looking forward to it."

There was a rapid knocking at the door and Mrs. Hoake left them in the kitchen to go and answer it. Brennan and Booth sat in mostly complete silence, working on their respective breakfasts, the silence a little awkward, as they both searched for something to fill the space between them with. Donaldson thundered down the stairs and walked into the kitchen, snagging a few pieces of bacon and pouring himself a bowl of cereal before he sat down at the kitchen table next to Brennan.

"All right, kid." Booth took a sip of his coffee and fixed his eyes on the young agent. "What's going on here?"

Donaldson blinked. "Nothing, sir."

"When do you head back for D.C.?"

"Whenever you send me there, sir." Donaldson shrugged his shoulders. "I'm supposed to help you out in whatever way I can until Doctor Sweets arrives."

"Ah, I see." Booth laughed. "What happened? You draw the short straw?"

Brennan focused sharp eyes on Booth. "Why would being asked to work with you be some kind of punitive measure, Booth?"

"It was a joke, Bones." Booth bumped her shoulder with his own. "He's here to keep an eye on us for the headshrinker."

"Oh," Brennan said, her eyes wide and searching as they roamed over his face. "Sweets' urge to observe us is occasionally very irritating. I do not find working with you to be a punitive measure at all, though."

"Thanks, Bones." He grinned.

"Howdy folks." Trooper Flint stood in the doorway, her hat tucked in her elbow. "I did you a favor and dropped off your vehicle for you this morning, Agent Booth. We know you have a preference for SUVs, so we did our best."

"I appreciate that," Booth said, flashing her a charm smile. "Thanks."

"That, uh, pretty much wraps up my official duties as far as this case goes," Trooper Flint said, flushing a little. "I just wanted to give you my card, Agent Booth. If you get lost and need a native." She slipped a card onto the table near Booth's elbow. "Oh, and you, too, Dr. Brennan," she said belatedly.

"Thank you," Brennan said, wiping the corner of her mouth with a napkin. "That is very kind of you."

Booth half-smiled at her. "We'll look forward to getting lost, then."

"Thanks." Trooper Flint turned and walked out the doorway. Booth watched her exit with a thoughtful expression.

Brennan turned interested eyes to Booth. "She's married."

"I know, Bones." He took a sip of coffee.

"She wasn't wearing a ring. Angela often tells me this means the person in question views him or herself as available." She watched him carefully, looking for any sign that he was truly interested in the other woman.

"Completely inappropriate, Bones. Besides, you know. Not everyone likes rings."

She blinked and tapped her spoon against her bowl. "What was inappropriate, my observations, or you having a relationship with her?"

"Both." He was starting to get up from the table when his cell phone rang. "Booth. Oh, hi Cam." He laid the phone down on the table and pressed speakerphone.

"Do you know what the best part of _The Wizard of Oz_ was?" Cam asked.

"When they melted the witch," Brennan said promptly. "I found that very emotionally satisfying, especially since she was so intent on killing a small animal which had done nothing to harm her."

"Uh – yes, but... was thinking more the song, you know? Oh the thoughts I'd be thinkin' I could be another Lincoln if I only had a brain..." her voice trailed off.

"Cam, what are you trying to tell us here? We don't exactly have time for games," Booth said impatiently.

"Cool it, big man," Cam said soothingly. "I'm trying to tell you that your victim? Had his brain removed post-mortem."

"Like by an embalmer or someone trying to mummify him?"

"No, I mean... someone sawed off the top of his skull and removed his brains."

Booth put down the piece of bacon he'd been playing with. "How come we didn't notice a skull that'd been sawed in half, huh?" His eyes met Brennan's, just for a moment, and he felt something like panic set over him. There was a very real possibility that maybe they weren't the best anymore.

"The remains were clothed, am I correct?"

"Yes, as a scarecrow," Brennan said firmly.

"And you had to leave the scene in a hurry..." Booth could almost see Cam shrug. "If the remains were packed away rapidly, it's very likely you weren't given a chance to observe them long enough, do as thorough an examination as you would wish."

Brennan bit at her lip. "Still, it's very... troublesome."

"We're defleshing the bones and analyzing particulates as we speak, Dr. Brennan," Cam said with authority. "We'll have more for you to go on in a few hours." She hung up.

"In the meantime, we've got to interview Hank Rettinger, who found the body, take another look at that crime scene, and then figure out where to go from there. Start asking around, see if anyone noticed anything weird in town." Booth threw his suit jacket on. "You ready to go, Donaldson?"

"Yes sir."

"Then drop your bacon and let's get going." Booth said. "You too, Bones. Chop chop."

Donaldson hurried out in front of them, but Booth caught Brennan's arm. "I'm sorry I snapped at you about Trooper Flint."

"It's okay." Brennan shook her head. "I... probably overstepped a boundary. I apologize."

"That's the thing, Bones, you didn't, really. You're not just my work partner, you're my friend. And... you're right."

"What? I didn't offer an opinion either way."

"The fact that you chose to say something was an opinion. And just so you know... it's not like that. It's never going to be like that." His eyes were warm, reassuring – as though the old Booth were reminding her that she was the standard, that no other woman was quite her.

"Oh, okay." Brennan nodded, awash in confusion. Despite Angela's words the night before, she was still uncertain with him – afraid she might do or say the wrong thing.

"A scarecrow without a brain," Booth said, rolling his eyes to break the sudden tension. "Sweets is probably right about this, Bones. We don't find some answers fast, we'll probably find more bodies."

"What makes you say that?"

"Cause this just screams creepy serial killer case at me." Booth shrugged his shoulders. "The body in the scarecrow, you know... that makes a statement."

"And you think, based on this... _feeling_ that you have, that there will be more bodies."

"I'm just saying, this killer has something on his mind, that's all."

"Maybe we should research connections between the senator and the scarecrow? If they are his remains, perhaps the connection is much less complicated than that?" Brennan shook her head. "I just don't want to jump to any conclusions."

"Yeah, of course not. That's what my job is," Booth said with a teasing smile.

* * *

The vehicle the Bureau had arranged was an outdated but serviceable Explorer, which the three piled into and headed off towards Rettinger's farmstead. After a few wrong turns, Mrs. Hoake's directions yielded results, and they turned down a dirt road with weeds growing everywhere but the two tire ruts worn into the earth.

Eventually, the road came to an end, and there was a house set into a hill, standing lopsided and weather worn, facing the south. The front door was open and swung lazily on rusty hinges. A dirty white cat slipped from the house outside and skirted around Booth's feet as he got out of the SUV.

As soon as the door slammed, two dogs jumped into action, springing from somewhere behind them, barking ferociously.

"Aw, don't mind them. Down, Blue," a voice said from behind Booth and Brennan, and a hand pulled the dog away from Booth's ankles, which it had been contemplating. Booth turned and faced the man who had saved him from an embarrassing ankle-nibbling fate and flashed his badge and a smile.

"Special Agent Seeley Booth, sir."

"I'm Hebrew Rettinger," the man said, with a reluctant smile. He had a slight beer belly, wore a grey t-shirt and holey jeans, and on top of his head, a Case IH hat perched proudly. His clothes were covered in dirt and grease. "I'd shake your hands, but I've been fighting with our bitch of an auger. Could take it to the mechanic, save myself some trouble, but after the week we've had, well..."

"We understand, Mr. Rettinger," Brennan said. "We're sorry to intrude, but Agent Booth has some questions for you and your family, especially the young man who found the body."

"Well, of course. We figured that must be the case. I'll have to go around the side, change out of these clothes so Helen doesn't set me on fire for tracking grease across her carpets. Just go on through the front door, shout for her. She'll come down the stairs."

"Hank?" Booth asked.

"He's helping the neighbors with harvest at the moment," Hebrew said. "I told him we'd call his cell phone if we needed him."

Booth looked over the hill the house was set against – past the barn and the lots where fifteen or twenty cows stood patiently, into the brown and patchy fields of pasture on the other side. "It's amazing that you people can get anything to grow here at all."

"Well, we don't, mostly." Hebrew said with a self-deprecating grin. "We're just here cause we're stubborn as hell."

Booth grinned. "I can appreciate that. Better call Hank. I hate to pull him away, but this is going to take a while."


	6. Six: Glinda the Good

**Author's Note:** Thank you for the wonderful reviews, alerts and favorites I've received for this story! It's a pleasure to write it, so it's gratifying to see it so well-received. Special thanks this chapter to the fabulous Kat Morning and Cathmarchr for beta'ing a plot-loaded chapter. Don't worry - the next one gets emotional, and will, as promised, be updated a week from today, Monday.

**Chapter Six: Glinda the Good**

Sweets entered the Jeffersonian with a bounce to his step. Hands in his pockets, with his bag slung over his shoulder, he made his way through the security check point to the Medico-Legal lab. Checking his watch, he nearly hit the woman darting in front of him. Stumbling a bit, but reluctant to be late, he called over his shoulder. "Sorry!"

"Lancelot?"

He stopped. He never thought he'd hear that voice again. Which had been a stupid assumption, he knew. After all, Daisy worked in a limited professional field that often crossed paths with his own. Of course he would see her again. Of course he would have to open that wound again.

A self-inflicted wound, possibly, but still a wound. Still a decision he wondered about every day. Some voice inside of him snapped him to attention, sounding suspiciously like Booth. It said: "Man up, Sweets."

He straightened his spine and turned. "Hey, Daisy."

"You look good." She studied him, her head tilted to the side.

"I, uh – thank you." Sweets flushed and rubbed the back of his neck. "You look nice, too." She did. She glowed from the inside out. A little of that insecurity that she'd tried so desperately to hide behind cheerfulness and a need to spout all of her knowledge at once had faded. She walked more confidently, and she looked more relaxed.

"Are you here to see Dr. Brennan?" She asked.

"No," he said with a shake of his head. "She's in Kansas, investigating a case with Booth."

Daisy's eyebrows scrunched together. "That happened very quickly."

"Yeah, too quickly," Sweets said, a little embarrassed when he saw the look of concern cross Daisy's face.

"Are you concerned for Dr. Brennan and Agent Booth's mental health? I can assure you that Dr. Brennan seemed fine when we left the Maluku Islands."

"I can't really talk about it. Doctor-patient confidentiality."

Daisy's face fell. "Oh yes, of course."

"I'm supposed to be meeting with Dr. Saroyan," Sweets said, after he cleared his throat. "I really shouldn't be late."

"No, I guess you shouldn't be." Daisy watched him with those eyes that had always seemed to know him in ways that no one else had in all of his life. "Lance?"

"Yeah, Daisy?"

She smiled. "I missed you while I was gone."

Sweets coughed. "Yeah, I uh – I missed you too, but... I don't think..."

"It would be inadvisable to resume a romantic relationship again?" Daisy took a step away from him. "Is that what you think?'

He fought the urge to loosen his tie. "Yeah, that's what I think."

She nodded, sadness in her eyes. "I thought you might say that. On further reflection, perhaps we weren't ready for that level of commitment if we weren't prepared to compromise."

Sweets smiled a pained smile. "Something like that. Daisy – I..."

"Good-bye, Lance. It was nice to see you again." She turned and walked in the opposite direction that Lance was headed.

"I'm sorry, man," Hodgins said. Sweets started. He hadn't been aware of anyone else in the room – something not uncommon when Daisy was around. Hodgins walked down the stairs from the platform to clasp his shoulder. "It's a tough situation."

"Yeah." Sweets straightened his tie. "I had hoped that I wouldn't have to – you know, I thought she'd move somewhere else after the dig, that's all."

"Do I smell avoidance?" Hodgins asked with a twinkle in his eye. "Listen, kid? Couple of things. One: She is moving. She was just here to pick up a reference from Dr. Saroyan and myself."

"Oh."

"Two? You did the right thing. Sometimes it's not about having enough love or not. It's about being in the right place at the right time."

"Rationally, I know that, but..."

Hodgins shrugged. "It still sucks, I know."

"Precisely, Dr. Hodgins."

"Sweets!" Cam stuck her head out from her office. "Don't we have an appointment ten minutes ago?"

"Yeah, Dr. Saroyan. I'll be right there!" Sweets coughed and stuck his hands in his pockets, still focused on Dr. Hodgins "Have you gotten a chance to speak to Agent Booth or Dr. Brennan since they got back?"

"Angie had a phone conversation with Dr. B. last night; I talked to Booth this morning." Hodgins shook his head. "I don't know, man."

"I've got an agent keeping an eye on them and reporting back to me until I take Parker out there this weekend," Sweets said, shrugging his shoulders.

"Good idea, man. I'm telling you, this whole thing just smacks of a conspiracy or some kind of government cover-up thing, and I'm not sure that this was a good one for Booth and Brennan right out of the gate, you know what I mean?"

Sweets smirked. "Nice to know your time in Paris hasn't dampened your paranoia."

"Are you kidding, man? I've got a kid on the way. I've got to stay on top of these things because someone's got to show her how the world really works."

Sweets laughed. "Yeah, all right."

Hodgins looked down at his clipboard. "I've got some very interesting webworm larva to take a look at right now, and you've got an appointment with Cam."

"Yes. Of course!" Sweets nodded and took off at a clip for Cam's office.

A quick rap at the door and he was admitted inside, Cam handing him a file as soon as he'd passed through the door. He flipped it open and his stomach roiled in protest. "Oh, gross, man."

"Yeah, to say the least." Cam gestured toward the couch and took a seat next to him, showing him some of the relevant photos. "These are the latest photos of the remains and the crime scene."

Sweets grabbed one and held it up to the light. "What's up with the skull?"

"The brain tissue was removed by an amateur sometime after death," Cam said bluntly.

"Oh, now that's interesting," Sweets said, flipping through the photos.

"What's interesting?"

"Well, there are a number of archetypes the killer is tapping into," Sweets said. "There is, of course, the obvious connection to _The Wizard of Oz_, but more than that, it's extremely interesting that he's chosen a politician for this particular crime."

"Okay. Tell me why." Cam crossed her legs and fixed him with a patient look.

"Well, uh, for one, there's the meaning of the _Wizard of Oz _itself. You see, in the time it was written, there was a debate going on about whether or not the United States' currency should be backed by silver or gold."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"The novel itself is a commentary on the inability of the politician in the Emerald City being unable to understand the plight of the everyday Munchkin, who strives to make his own living from the land."

"Okay, now you're reading too much into things," Cam said with a shake of her head. "Sometimes a tree is just a tree."

"Given the extremely symbolic nature of these killings I don't think we can ignore any avenue of psychological investigation," Sweets protested. "There's also the connection of, you know. Using a straw man argument..."

"A logical fallacy politicians fall into all the time," Cam said, her eyes widening. "Well, that's certainly interesting."

"Yes, exactly. Our killer could be making a commentary on the lack of sense he sees in the world," Sweets said. "I think I can say with certainty that whoever we're looking for thinks of himself as a very intelligent person, above the 'normal' he works with. He probably didn't do well in a traditional academic environment – doesn't play well with others, but his IQ is probably off the charts, and he knows it."

"I can pass all that on to Booth when I give him our mid-morning briefing here in a couple of hours," Cam said, rising to her feet. "You can get me a written report?"

"Within the next hour, with very preliminary findings. I'll have to spend some more time with the file itself before I can give you anything more concrete," Sweets said.

"That's good. Perfect." Cam returned to her desk and opened her computer, effectively dismissing Sweets, who rose and headed for the door. "Oh hey, Sweets?"

"Yeah?"

"You're taking Parker to see Booth?"

"Yeah, tomorrow," Sweets said.

Cam smiled. "You're turning into quite the man, Sweets."

Sweets turned bright red and headed for the door, feeling absurdly like he had when he'd finally received his doctorate: accomplished, worthy and proud.

* * *

Donaldson followed Booth and Brennan into the house, watching the two partners surreptitiously. He had a Master's degree in psychology, which was how he'd landed this assignment from Deputy Director Hacker. Although very young, he had been well-trained and Hacker had made it clear that he thought Donaldson was going places, so long as he didn't screw up this assignment. Which, as it turned out, had very little to do with the case at all.

"Something happened with Tempe and Booth a year ago," Hacker had told him, "it's none of my business, honestly, just as long as they can do the job in front of them. So, that's your job. You keep them functioning as a unit if at all possible. And if they can't, you call me, and I'll pull the plug."

No mistakes, Donaldson told himself fiercely. He couldn't really afford any. Not that he was expecting them to make any. They moved as one - without really having to communicate - both at the crime scene and now as they entered the Rettingers' home to do their initial interview. Booth's hand guided Brennan's back through the door, and she shot him a tolerant but censuring look over her shoulder, which he shrugged at.

Fascinating, Donaldson thought, but he didn't say anything.

Still, he could tell there was something missing from this relationship. Something wasn't quite right with the two of them. They were compensating, somehow. Maybe Dr. Brennan would normally have said something, or maybe Booth would have taken her hand before... Donaldson had no way of knowing, but he knew in his gut that they were still just a bit broken.

Whatever had happened, it had to have been a doozy.

Awkwardly, they stood in the front entrance a moment until a woman approached from the back of the house. She was whip-thin and wore her hair in a messy ponytail, jeans just as worn as her husband's had been, wearing a pink t-shirt with the sleeves rolled up to her shoulders to make it a makeshift tank top.

"Oh hey. Hebrew told me you folks were here. I'm Helen." She smiled. "Come on in. It's a hell of a hot day. Can I get you something to drink? Got tea, some soda... water?"

"No, thank you," Brennan said, making herself comfortable on a couch. "I'm Doctor Temperance Brennan, and this is my partner, Special Agent Seeley Booth, and his associate, Agent Donaldson."

"Hello," Helen said with a smile and a nod of her head. "Zachariah told us to expect you."

Booth wiped his brow. "I could use a glass of water, thank you for offering, ma'am."

"Helen," she corrected. "You don't have to worry about standing on ceremony with me. And what about you?"

Donaldson cleared his throat. "Tea is fine."

"You sound like you're from cotton country," Helen said with a faint smile. "I don't normally muddy up my tea with sugar, but do you want some?"

"I've gotten used to drinking it the Yankee way, ma'am," he said with a grin. "No sugar is fine."

"All right. Have a seat, make yourself at home, you two." Helen dusted her hands off on her jeans. "I'll be right back."

There were a few moments of silence until she returned with two glasses and sat down in the armchair of the small living room.

Looking around, Donaldson noticed that the carpet was fraying at the edges and the wallpaper was worn and dated. All of the furniture sagged a little in the middle, but it was all clean – scrupulously so. Helen might have been dressed like a farmhand, but she sat like a lady, with ankles crossed at the bottom of her chair.

Interesting, he thought.

"We can get started just as soon as your husband comes inside," Booth told Helen with a charming smile. "You've got a nice place here."

"We're finally doing all right," Helen said with a soft smile. "It took us twenty years to get here, but when we write a check now, we're nearly always positive there's money in the bank for it."

Donaldson chuckled. "I know how that goes."

"Farm boy?" Helen asked.

"Yeah, Dad had a farm growing up," Donaldson shrugged. "We raised thoroughbred horses."

"Kentucky boy, then," Helen said with a gentle smile.

"Yes, ma'am. He had a stroke about five years ago, and I had no interest in farming, so we sold it off."

"It's not a life for everyone," Helen said, nodding. "What about you, Agent Booth, Dr. Brennan?"

Booth shook his head. "Nah. I grew up in Philly. I was never around anything like this."

"Chicago for me," Brennan volunteered, which apparently surprised Booth, since he raised his eyebrows. "A few of my classmates had hobby farms, but there was nothing like this. This is... very impressive. Do you own all of the land we drove through?"

"Some of it," Helen said with a shrug of her shoulders. "The pastures to the south and the quarter of land to the northeast. You know, Agent Donaldson, if you've got the urge to get on the back of a horse while you're out here, we've got our horses just in the yard. We were going to move cattle today before... well, before Hank found that poor man."

"I might take you up on that, ma'am," Donaldson said with a faint smile.

"We probably won't have the time," Dr. Brennan said, giving Donaldson a look that made him want to disappear into his shoes.

"Being polite, Bones, " Booth muttered under his breath.

"Oh."

Hebrew Rettinger walked into the room then, drawing his wife up out of the armchair she occupied. He settled in, and then she sat on the arm of the chair, his hand on her thigh, as though they'd sat like that a thousand times before. Donaldson surmised that they probably had.

"Hank's on his way," Hebrew said. "It took a few tries to get through to him. We only just now got cell phones that would work out in the fields a few years ago.

"That's okay," Agent Booth said, putting his glass down on the coffee table in front of him. "What was your son Hank doing out at that hour of the morning, anyway?"

"Checking fence in the pasture," Hebrew said, taking off his hat and rubbing his head. "Making sure the cows hadn't destroyed any of the barbed wire we use to fence them in."

Brennan wrinkled her brow. "And he was doing so on an ATV?"

"Yeah. Most kids around here learn to drive very early, Dr. Brennan," Helen said, gesturing out the window. "It's a good twenty miles into town to go to school, at the very least, and the amount of land we farm is pretty considerable. The boys all learn to be self-sufficient early on so they can help out."

"And that's what he was doing that morning?"

"Yes. He'd gone out particularly early because he wanted to head to Hays with his friend Seth." Helen rolled her eyes. "He wanted the cash he earns for checking fence for us for the arcade games he likes to waste it on."

"How long was the real scarecrow out in the field?" Booth asked.

"Uh, Hank made that for a school project in May?" Helen looked at her husband for confirmation. "That's not the kind of thing we would have normally."

"How often do you check that particular field?" Donaldson asked. "I mean – how long could the remains have been out there without you noticing?"

"Most it could have been was a couple of days." Hebrew shrugged his shoulders. "Hank liked to make sure that the scarecrow was doing okay, you know, but I don't think he checks it every day. You'd have to ask him."

"Are you familiar with Senator Williams at all?" Brennan asked.

"Yes," Helen said, wrinkling her brow. "I mean, I know who he is, of course. Most folks do, right?"

"Would you consider yourselves politically active?" Booth asked, marking something down on his notebook.

"No, not really. I mean, we vote," Helen said. "To be honest, it doesn't seem like it much matters who's in office."

"Same old shit, same old stink," Hebrew said, shrugging his shoulders. "If you know what I mean."

"So you've never met the man personally?" Booth asked.

"No, can't say as I have," Hebrew said. "Helen?"

"No," she said, shaking her head as though to clear it. "Honestly, this whole thing is just so bizarre. I can't hardly wrap my head around it. Is Senator Williams the man in the scarecrow?"

"We have not yet made a positive identification of the remains," Brennan said bluntly, "but initial evidence suggests that is may be the case."

The front door opened with a bang and all of the adults jumped a little as a young man made his way into the living room. He couldn't have been more than fourteen years old, but he was nearly as tall as Dr. Brennan and was as skinny as a reed.

"Hank? These people are here to ask you about yesterday morning," Helen said, jumping to her feet.

"Uh – oh. Okay." Hank scratched his forehead. "I answered a whole bunch of questions yesterday."

"Unfortunately, that's kind of how these things go," Agent Booth said, rising to his feet. "You get asked the same questions over and over, I'm sorry to say. I'm Special Agent Seeley Booth. This is my partner, Dr. Temperance Brennan, and my associate, Agent Donaldson."

"Hey." Hank squeezed Booth's hand, then Donaldson's, and lastly Brennan's, flushing bright red and refusing to look her in the eye. "What can I, um, do for you guys?"

"Let's start at the beginning," Booth said, "and go over everything."

* * *

An hour and a half later, they left the Rettingers' home and piled back in the SUV. They were a quarter of a mile down the road before Agent Booth shook his head.

"Helen Rettinger is full of shit."

"Booth?" Brennan turned to him, her brow furrowed.

"I'm just saying, she's lying to me. Right out of the gate." Booth sighed. "Very irritating, Bones."

"What was she lying about?"

"She's met the senator," Donaldson suggested.

"Bingo." Booth acknowledged him with a wave of his finger. "I'd lay money on it. She wasn't always a farmer's wife. Not the way she acts."

"I noticed the same thing," Donaldson agreed.

"Yeah," Booth said. "And, you know. Almost every other question, she went first. Very helpful. Right until I asked if they'd met the Senator before. Then she had to make a decision."

"And she decided to lie?" Brennan shook her head. "How is that helpful?"

"People get nervous around murder investigations," Booth said, shrugging his shoulders. "Or she might've killed him."

"And stuffed the body in her son's scarecrow? And sawed his skull open and removed his brains?" Brennan shook her head.

"I agree, Dr. Brennan, it doesn't feel right," Donaldson offered.

"How we feel is irrelevant, Agent Donaldson. If the evidence leads us to her, then it is very possible that she is the murderer."

Booth smirked. "Yeah, Bones doesn't really do 'feelings', Agent Donaldson."

"Yeah, but you do, Agent Booth."

"And?"

"What do you think?"

Booth shrugged his shoulders. "If I were still a gambling man, I'd say she didn't do it. But, you know, she lied to a federal officer in the course of an investigation, and that just pisses me off."

"Do you want me to call the Bureau, have them do a little poking around?" Donaldson asked, reaching for his cell phone.

"Yeah." Booth reached for his sunglasses in the glove box. "Tell them not to worry about being discreet about it, either."

Brennan fixed him with a worried glance, and they sped through the Rettinger's land towards town in silence from then on out.


	7. Seven: The Wizard and I

**Author's Note: **Thank you to the reviewers that continue to respond to every chapter. It's so wonderful to know that you're enjoying all of my hard work.

**Chapter Seven: The Wizard And I**

Booth silently seethed as they drove down the highway. This was the kind of crap that had tired him even from the very beginning of the job. It wasn't surprising that people lied; murder investigations were high-stakes, and even an idiot off the street understood the consequences of being found guilty. He wanted to curse, slam his hand against the wheel or punch a window: the kinds of things his father would have done to blow off some steam.

He could feel Brennan's eyes on him, studying him carefully, as she had on and off since they first saw each other on the plane. He wondered what she was looking for. He could tell she was concerned – that practically radiated off of her in waves - but he didn't know how to reassure her that he would be all right.

Damn the Army and damn Bones and damn Hacker and damn everything, Booth thought. Before he'd opened up his mouth in Sweets' office, they'd been perfectly content. Deluded, maybe, but it had been a happy stalemate. They both knew the score, and they would have continued along in that vein forever: alone-but-together. His place and her place. Breakfast at the diner, supper at Founding Fathers. Solving cases and being _just goddamn fine._

Or maybe that's not how it would have gone. Brennan might have turned down the dig in Indonesia if the Gravedigger trial had gone better, but he still would have gone overseas. It'd been drilled into him from a very young age that to live in America was a privilege and one that had to be paid for in duty and honor and blood.

In the end, it had been Parker that had persuaded him to go. Not just the conversation in the car that had told Booth that Parker expected him to go, but the _fact_ of Parker. He wanted his little boy to say with pride that he had done, unfailingly, what his country had asked of him. He wanted Parker to think of him as a hero – to understand that when Booth talked about honoring heroes and patriotism and love of country, he'd been talking in concretes; not ideas that applied to someone else.

He'd known going in that he'd save lives, but he'd also known that he'd lose them. Not everyone came back from a war, and it was usually the young and the good-hearted that paid the price for the older men who ruled the world. That was the side of war he hadn't wanted to talk to Parker about until he had armpit hair. Like Santa Claus, sometimes it was better to preserve the illusion.

And it pissed him off, royally pissed him off, that with everything going on, everything he'd done, everything he had given up, that people lied to him about crap that didn't matter in the long run. Booth had told Catherine once that he could always tell who _hadn't_committed a murder, and in this case, he knew that Helen Rettinger hadn't. There wasn't that capability in her eyes. So why lie?

They reached the highway – Brennan checking her mail on her phone and Donaldson studiously staring out the window. Booth caught sight of the diner/gas station that the Sheriff had recommended to him and he glanced over at Brennan, forcing a bright smile.

"What do you say, Bones? Take a little break from the world for a cup of coffee?"

Brennan narrowed her eyes at him, clearly not buying his act. "That would be agreeable. Cam will be calling us with a mid-morning update in a few minutes."

"Great." Booth smiled.

"Coffee sounds like a good idea to me, too, you know," Donaldson said, clearing his throat.

Brennan looked over her shoulder at him. "Sorry, Agent Donaldson. We should have asked your opinion." Her expression, however, gave her clear lack of remorse. Booth bit back a smile. It was good to know Bones resented the intrusion into their usual working style as much as he did. Some things, at least, never changed.

The SUV came to a stop and they climbed out of the car and back into the repressive heat. Donaldson sighed and slipped his sunglasses on. "I do believe it's hot enough to fry an egg on the asphalt."

Brennan squinted at him. "How can you tell?"

"An expression, Bones. It's just an expression," Booth ground out, feeling strangely irritated. He usually found this side of Bones adorable.

"It's very likely that the road could become hot enough to fry an egg, however," Brennan said, with acknowledging nod at Donaldson. "Asphalt retains heat extremely well and can become much hotter than the air temperature around it."

Booth could see Donaldson struggle a bit to come up with a proper response to that. "I guess you learn something new every day."

Before Brennan could speak up, Booth clasped Donaldson on the shoulder. "Maybe you could lay off the idioms and folk phrases for a bit, yeah? Starting to get a headache." He walked ahead of Brennan and Donaldson, pushing the glass door of the establishment open and wincing when the doorbell rang.

The inside was paneled entirely in wood – from floor to ceiling, and a few booths were pushed against one wall. The majority of the space, however, was occupied by a long bar and the dozen or so stools that lined it. The windows were dirty and chalked with signs promoting the local high school team. One lone table sat in a corner with a bucket and a sign that read: "For Sale: Rattlesnakes, $10".

Booth whipped off his sunglasses and headed straight for the counter and the smell of coffee. Finding a seat at the bar, he waited while Brennan and Donaldson sat as well. A woman stepped out from the kitchen and smiled at them. She was white-haired, suntanned and yet somehow ageless. In her youth, she must have been a show-stopping beauty, but time had worn her down. Still, her smile was bright and welcoming and Booth found himself smiling in response.

"You folks have to be from the FBI," she said definitively, "don't ya?"

"Booth is," Brennan said, her need for correctness once again making itself known. "As is Agent Donaldson. I'm Doctor Temperance Brennan, with the Jeffersonian Institute."

"Oh, you know we went there once on a school trip with the boys," the woman said, "and I just found it all so fascinating. You had an Egyptian exhibit at the time, as I recall... Oh, excuse me. I'm forgetting my manners. Marge Dewey, that's the name."

"Good morning," Brennan said, shooting Booth a glance when he didn't respond to her. "I'm glad you enjoyed your visit."

"Oh, very much. Now, we don't have anything fancy, but the coffee's hot and the lemonade's cold. What can I get you folks?"

"Coffee, black," Booth practically growled.

"A little milk in mine," Brennan said, glaring at Booth. He felt guilty for a brief moment but then his phone began to ring. He snapped it open.

"Booth."

"It's Cam."

"Okay, hold on." He gestured at Brennan and walked out the door, closing it in Donaldson's face. "What's new?"

"There was enough tissue left on the remains to run a tox screen," Cam said, "and it came back with quite a tale to tell."

"Just the facts, Camille," Booth snapped. Brennan grabbed the phone from him.

"Sorry, Dr. Saroyan." She held up a hand when Booth began to protest. "What were the results?"

"Drug overdose could be a likely cause of death. Our senator came back positive for all kinds of things: cocaine, ecstasy..."

"Clark's report says there's evidence of a struggle," Brennan said. "I just received his report."

Booth's eyebrows flew up. Cam continued on: "Yes, absolutely. All of the evidence is peri-mortem, but however much damage was done to his body before he was dead, it was the drugs that killed him."

"Unless Clark or Wendell finds something to the contrary," Brennan said firmly. "It's too early to speak with absolute certainty."

"Yes, of course." Booth could hear the amusement in Cam's voice and he fisted his hands.

"What about the identification, Camille? My investigation is pretty well stalled until you can identify the body positively."

"Okay, Seeley. In childhood, Senator Williams broke his left femur in two places. The remodeling of the bones as well as what's left of the dentals confirm: these remains belong to Senator Williams."

"_That _is the kind of information you start with, Camille. You start with the identity of the victim and _then_ you irritate the crap out of me with the science stuff."

"Agent Booth?" Cam's voice was frosty, and Booth felt a cold shiver of self-awareness run down his spine. He'd gone too far.

"Sorry, Cam." He coughed. "It's been... a rough morning."

"I hope so," Cam said. "Well, that's about all I have to right now. I'm going to have Wendell investigate the cause of the bruising on the ribs and Hodgins is still sorting through particulates to see if we can give you a better idea of whether or not the senator died in that field."

"Right, good. Okay." Booth took his phone from Brennan and snapped it closed. "Coffee?"

Brennan set her mouth in a line. "No."

"What?" Booth stopped and put his hands on his hips.

"Booth, I'm sorry that this is a difficult time for you and I know you're missing Parker," Brennan said on a rush, "but you've got to stop... being me."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"I upset the locals. I... put my foot in my mouth and ask the wrong questions." Brennan put her hand on Booth's bicep and squeezed. "Seeing you this way puts me... very off-balance."

Booth's mouth went dry. "Well, I'm sorry I'm inconveniencing you."

"Stop that," Brennan said firmly. "I'm trying to talk to you. I'm trying to help."

"What can you do to help me, huh?" Booth looked anywhere but her eyes. They were so blue and so soft... and better than he'd remembered, and she was breaking him in half. "Can you bring me my kid? Can you give me a second to breathe?"

She pried his other hand from his hip and wrapped it in her own. "No, Booth, I can't do that. I'm sorry, I know – you _deserve_ those things. You really do."

Booth squeezed her hand and let his head hit the wall behind him. "My hands itch."

"You want to gamble, you mean?"

"Yeah. I want to gamble. Or hit someone. Or drink a good bottle of single-barrel Jack all by myself. Fuck a beautiful woman or rip something apart."

Brennan grabbed his other hand, rubbing her thumb soothingly over his palm. "Booth..."

He winced. "Bones, I'm sorry. Let's just... let's get back in there and have coffee, okay?"

"Booth..." Brennan protested. "No. Let's..."

"What? What are we going to do, huh? We don't have time for me to be a child, Bones. Let's just postpone this little breakdown until later, okay?" He dropped her hands, put his sunglasses back on, and walked back in the shop.

* * *

Parker Booth adjusted his backpack, staring up at the face of the Hoover building. He'd been here plenty of times before, of course, but always to see his dad, and always with an adult to accompany him. This time, though, he was here to see a different adult, and he was by himself. Still, he had a mission, and he was determined to complete it.

Sneaking away from the summer camp he attended had been easy enough – they were good at headcounts and keeping track of everyone usually – until they threw open the doors and let the kids out for recess. He'd had the help of his friend Bobby, who distracted the teachers long enough for Parker to vault over the fence and walk the block and a half to the bus stop.

When he'd paid his fare in quarters and dimes, the bus driver had smiled at him in the way that adults had that meant he'd done something particularly adorable, and he'd walked back to the middle of the bus, sat quietly and waited for his stop. D.C. had zoomed by – sweltering in the summer sun and melting everything and everyone just a little. It had been a relief to get off of the bus and away from the smell of people far too close together.

Parker ran a hand through his curls and thought once more about buzzing them off like his friend Petey had right as he opened the front door and walked in the lobby, straight up to the front desk like he'd been taught all of his life.

He waited patiently until the secretary there, Debbie,was done on the phone. When she clicked off the line and turned her attention to him, her eyes widened. "Parker?"

"Hey Mrs. Katz," he said with a grin people told him all the time looked just like his dad's. "How are you?"

"Melting in this sun," she said with a kind smile. "If you're looking for your dad, he's on assignment in Kansas."

"Yeah, I know. I'm here to see Deputy Director Hacker, if I can."

Debbie's eyebrows shot up. "Oh really? Do you have an appointment?"

Parker felt his stomach drop, and – though he would never admit this to someone else - his eyes fill with tears. "No, ma'am."

"Well, most folks have to have an appointment to see the Deputy Director. However," she continued, seeing the distraught look on Parker's face, "we'll just see what we can do for you." Extending her hand, she beckoned Parker behind the desk and dialed a number. "Oh hey Melinda, listen I was wondering. Can you push Director Hacker's schedule around so he has five minutes here in the next little bit?"

A few moments later, Parker was riding the elevator up to the floor where Deputy Director Hacker had his office. The woman he'd heard on the phone rose to her feet immediately when she saw him.

"You must be Parker Booth!"

He smiled shyly. "Yes, ma'am. I am."

"Oh my gosh. Well, he certainly raised you right. Course, we'd have to expect that from Special Agent Booth. Don't know that there's a thing that man does poorly. Well, he's just about ready for you. He has another man in there."

"I can wait." Parker sat in a chair, reached in his backpack and pulled out a book. Normally he wasn't a big fan of reading, but the books he'd been reading lately were pretty cool, about a boy who discovered he was half a god. He'd gotten a few pages in when the office door opened and a harried-looking man stepped out. He moved quickly, but paused when he saw Parker sitting there.

"You waiting on your dad?" he asked, jerking his thumb toward Hacker's office.

"No, sir. I'm waiting to talk to his boss."

The man raised an eyebrow and sat next to him, extending his hand for a shake. "I'm Joe. What's your name?"

"Parker Booth," Parker answered honestly.

Joe's face softened into a smile. "Are you Special Agent Seeley Booth's son?"

"Yes, sir. He's in Kansas right now."

"I know. I'm sorry that we had to ask him to take on a case so quickly."

"Do you work for the FBI?" Parker asked, sitting up straighter.

"No. Usually, Deputy Director Hacker comes to me. I work at the White House, for Mr. Obama ."

Parker's eyes widened. "Wow. That's really cool."

"Some days." Joe regarded the small boy levelly. "Some days it's not fun at all."

"Like the day you asked Dad to come back to work before he got to say hello?" Parker asked, remembering just why he'd come in the first place.

"I'm sorry about that." Joe shook his head. "It's a very sad situation, though. A man close to Mr. Obama has passed away, and we need your dad to help us figure out who did it so that they can't hurt anyone ever again."

"Dad's the best at solving murders." Parker nodded. "He's also the best at shooting guns and taking down bad guys."

"That's what I hear. That's why we had to ask him."

"He's also really good at playing catch. And showing me how to throw a football. And making popcorn and staying up 'til midnight."

Joe nodded. "I'm sorry, Parker. I know you must have missed him."

"A year is a long time. Dr. Sweets says it's not anyone's fault 'cause Dad can't say no when his country asks him to do something cause Dad really likes being an American."

"It's sometimes very difficult to do what our country asks of us to do – your father has made a lot of sacrifices to keep you safe. And you've made a lot of sacrifices, young man. Mr. Obama would want me to tell you thank you."

"Ask Mr. Obama when I can have my dad back," Parker said, his eyes flashing a little cold. "Cause I need him just as much as America does."

"We'll get him home, Mr. Booth," Joe said seriously, extending his hand. "Just as soon as we can. My word of honor."

"No changies, no takebacks," Parker said firmly. "Your word of honor."

"Absolutely."

"Good." Parker shook Joe's hand. "I can wait."

* * *

"So what do we do now that we have confirmed the identity of the victim?" Donaldson asked, once Booth had filled him in on the details he'd received in the briefing.

"We start shifting through the garbage," Booth said firmly. "And that means a trip to visit the last place he was seen alive, interviewing all of the people that worked in the campaign office in Salina..."

"We should call Mrs. Hoake and tell her we won't be home for supper," Brennan said, interrupting their conversation.

"What? Why?" Booth raised his eyebrows.

"It's a three and a half hour drive out there, Booth, according to my GPS. It's very likely we won't make it back in time to have your steak."

"You know what the problem is with this state?" Booth grumbled. "It's too damn big."

"Texas is bigger," Donaldson pointed out, and was silenced immediately by the glares of Brennan and Booth. Fortunately for him, Booth's cell phone rang again.

"Booth."

"It's Hacker."

Booth fought the urge to roll his eyes or shut the phone off. "How can I help you, sir?"

"I just finished briefing the White House Chief of Staff on the Williams case."

"Uh, congratulations, I guess," Booth said, unlocking the door to the SUV with the remote control.

"He said that he and any of his staff would be available for questioning any time that you needed them, given Williams' tight connections in the administration."

"Well, that's nice to hear sir, but..."

"He also wanted me to tell you that he really enjoyed meeting your son, and that you ought to be very proud of him."

"I... am, sir, but... what? Why?"

"Parker stopped by to see me today." Booth could hear the rustle of papers on the other end of the line and he pictured Hacker nonchalantly signing files while he terrified Booth.

"What? Sir, he's supposed to be in a summer program at..."

"We got him home safely, Booth – along with a strong warning - but you can't blame the kid. He's a bit worried about you."

Booth swallowed. "Oh."

"You're doing a good job on the case, Booth. Your reports are as good as ever, your information is solid, and you're moving as quickly as can be expected."

"Thanks, sir, but..."

"So call your kid, Booth. Take ten minutes. That's an order."

"Absolutely. Thanks."

Booth hung up the phone, and stared at it for a minute. Bones looked at him quizzically. "Is everything all right? Parker?"

"He took a day trip, all by himself," Booth was shaking, "to the FBI offices, to talk to Hacker."

"Agent Donaldson?" Brennan fixed a pointed glare at the man who was watching them both with fascinated eyes. "As my brother would have told me two decades ago: get lost."

"Bones..." Booth gave a weak half-laugh. "You can't be mean to the junior agent, he..."

"He made it there safely, didn't he?" Brennan didn't move to touch him this time, but her eyes were intense as any caress. "Parker, I mean."

"Yeah, he got there and back okay." Booth shrugged. "He was just... worried. I called Rebecca last night but it was too late to talk to Parker, he was already asleep and... I didn't want her to shake his life up anymore than I already was, so..."

"Booth. Parker loves you. He needs to hear that you're okay."

Booth started to walk, away from the store and away from the SUV, into the bright blue horizon. He knew without looking that Bones was right behind him. They'd walked maybe five minutes along the highway before he stopped.

"You know, they tell me my old man was a good guy before the war." He picked up a rock and tossed it in his hands. "Sometimes I'd even catch a glimpse of that person. He'd smile just the right way or he'd dance with my mother in the kitchen."

"Booth, you -"

"Just... stop, for a second, okay Temperance?" He sighed. "Just... stop. Cause you have to know: my old man was a real fucker when he was drunk, and he was conniving and mean when he was sober. He tore my mom apart from the inside out, and I'm the only one left in the world that knows just how bad it was."

"Are you concerned that... you will become your father?"

"Sweets is right. There's this rage inside of me that boils underneath the surface. I've got a pretty good handle on it, usually. I can be the nice guy and do the right things and go whole weeks without breaking something or losing a night in a bottle of booze." Booth shrugged. "Normally, I'm not anything like that part of my old man."

"You aren't now, either."

"I'm pissed as hell, Bones."

"You have a right to be. Your father's rage was... uncontrollable. Irrational. You are in a very difficult situation at the moment." Brennan watched him, somewhat helplessly. "You can control your rage, Booth. Even your rational rage. You're not going to hurt Parker. You're not going to gamble again, and you're not going to fall into a bottle."

"How do you know?"

"Because I won't let you." Brennan stood as solid as a stone. "In... times where my life has been very difficult, and I have found change hard to handle – when my whole paradigm was shifting, you were there, Booth."

Booth sidearmed the stone he picked up with all of his might. "Bones... listen, you don't owe me anything or... whatever. There's no social contract here, okay?'

"Yes, there is." Brennan picked up a rock, and launched it down the dirt road they'd been standing on, away from the high way."You're my partner, you're my friend. I'm going to help you, Booth. Whether you want my help or not."

"Temperance, Jesus, just..."

She took his elbow firmly. "We are going to walk back together. You will call Parker and reassure him that you are alive and doing well. Then we are going to question witnesses and start taking apart the senator's life, together."

"Yeah, okay," Booth said with a nod of his head. "That... sounds good."

"But before you do any of that," Brennan said, reaching into her bag and pulling out a bottle of water and a few nondescript white pills, "you are going to take two of these."

"What are they?"

"Painkillers. You won't be nearly as grouchy or emotional when your back loosens up," Brennan said firmly. "When we get to the hotel in Salina, I'll be able to do more for you."

"Bones..."

"Shut up, Booth. Take the pills and let's go."

He smiled, a little dazed. "Yeah, okay."


	8. Eight: The Flying Monkey

**Author's Note:** As usual, massive thanks are owed to Kat Morning and Cathmarchr for the fantastic beta on this section of the story. Ayiana2 was invaluable help with the pacing of the beginning scene, as well.

I'm planning on letting this be a two-update week, so look for another chapter Thursday evening or Friday morning! (Oh, and if you're a Sweets/Daisy shipper... trust me.)

**Chapter Eight: The Flying Monkey**

Angela studied the skull on the table before her, Wendell's carefully-placed tissue markers paving the way for the painstaking work of putting a face to the battered remains. At first, the company of the dead had been unnatural to her, and at times it was still slightly disconcerting and oftentimes painful. A year away had rejuvenated her – washed away some of the grit and the grime that had settled on her, but it had also erased some of the numbness that had shielded her from some of the harder emotions. This first case back had been like the very first – the disgust, the horror... and the satisfaction of knowing she was helping _someone's_ family.

With a skill that was still innate, she slowly gave the man back his face, returned some of the dignity of his life to him, and as she did, she spoke softly to herself, and to the child inside of her and the man in front of her. The three of them, involved in a conversation where Angela was the only one who spoke aloud.

She gave him back his eyes and told her daughter that she loved her father's eyes – tested blue and green and brown and all the colors in-between and saved them in different files on her computer. She shaded the skin and spoke of spring in Paris, the sweet kiss of the first rain in April that had induced the lovemaking that had conceived the child. She teased the man before her about the lovers he might have had – asked him about the wife she hoped he'd had...

Her ring caught the sunlight streaming through the window just as she saved the final touches on the final face that could belong to the man in front of her. She had a number of sketches and renderings with different combinations. She zipped them into a file and sent them to Brennan. A soft knock on her office door made her turn. She smiled softly at what she saw. "Hey, Wendell."

He opened his arms and swept her into a hug. Just as warm and reassuring as he had been when they were dating, and smelling just as good. Angela let herself float on a wave of nostalgia and affection. They broke apart quickly, Wendell's hands cupping her face.

"You look beautiful," he said in that honest way he had that she had always envied.

"I look fat," she corrected with a patient smile.

"No, Angie. You look beautiful, and Hodgins is a lucky man." He kissed her cheek. "I wanted you to know that I'm so happy for you."

"Thanks, Wendell." Angela tried to smile, but her eyes welled with tears. "You..."

"Yeah." He shrugged, holding out a file. "Uh, I brought you this. We confirmed the identity of the remains this morning. It's Senator Williams."

Angela sighed and unconsciously placed her hand on her stomach. "I had a feeling it might be. Poor guy."

"Well. I just wanted to tell you – and the congratulations thing," Wendell said, a little awkwardly. "It's nice to have you back."

"It's nice to be back." Angela smiled. "I never thought I would miss this. I guess Brennan's ruined me in the same twisted way the rest of you are ruined.

Wendell smiled. "You know, I forgot that you talk to them."

She flushed. "What?"

"I forgot that you talk to the dead." He shrugged. "I always liked that, you know? You never forget their humanity."

Angela brushed her hair back from her face and was about to respond when Hodgins knocked on the door. A look of genuine delight crossed his face. "Hey Wendell! I haven't seen you around!"

The two men embraced, clasping each other on the back and pounding a few times. Hodgins broke away first. "How's it going, man?"

"Oh, it's going pretty well, actually. Did you hear we got a positive I.D in the scarecrow body?"

Hodgins' eyebrows rose. "Was it the Senator?"

"Turns out it was," Wendell said with a nod of his head.

"Oh boy, that's going to be interesting," Hodgins said. "It might get pretty tense around here."

"Yeah, that's for sure. Listen, Hodgins, congratulations man," Wendell said with a big smile. "I couldn't be happier for you and Ange."

Hodgins' face softened. "Hey thanks, man."

There was an awkward pause for a minute before Wendell cleared his throat. "So, uh... got anything new?"

"Yeah, actually." Hodgins seemed to snap back awake. "All of the particulate evidence I've been able to sort through is consistent with our victim being out in the field they found him in for fourteen to sixteen hours."

"But he wasn't killed there?"

"Particulate evidence in his defensive wounds showed nylon, wool, foam and adhesive. The nylon and wool fibers were dyed a color its manufacturer calls Ocean Blue." Hodgins grinned. "Wherever the victim received his defensive wounds, he was in an area where they were laying carpet. Calliope Carpet, to be exact. I still have some unexplained insect activity and a few other particulates to analyze, but that's the picture I'm getting. I just let Cam know."

"I'm looking for any other signs of trauma that would be cause of death other than the drug overdose," Wendell said.

Angela stood and pressed a hand to her mouth. "Good to know, everyone. If you'll excuse me..."

She ran out of the office like a bat out of hell. Wendell started after her, and looked helplessly at Hodgins.

"Is she okay? Did we upset her? I didn't mean..."

"Nah, man, it's morning sickness." Hodgins winced in sympathy. "Hits her at random times. It doesn't seem to have anything to do with what's going on around her."

"Oh," Wendell said, his eyes widening. "Are you going to go help her?"

"Yeah, in a minute. She doesn't want me in there for the first bit. We've got a routine." Hodgins looked vaguely proud. "Sort of like we're in this together. Only don't tell her I said that, because she'll hit me."

Wendell smiled. "You know, you guys are going to be great parents."

"We're going to do our best." Hodgins shrugged his shoulders. "It... just happened so fast, but it's better than I ever thought it would be, you know?

"Yeah, man." Wendell clasped Hodgins on the shoulder. "I know."

* * *

Booth half-dozed all the way to Salina, Bones' wonder-pills working magic on the tenseness that had settled in him, and helping to relax the muscles that knotted in his back and the soreness from the traveling. He could hear Bones and Donaldson having a lively conversation about her work in Indonesia; kid had her figured out, Booth thought with a smile. The easiest way to get her to open up was to ask her squinty questions.

They were pulling into a gas station when Booth's phone rang and Brennan shook him gently awake. "Booth, wake up. Your phone's going off."

"Dammit," Booth grumbled, but he reached for the device that had been charging. He flipped open the phone. "Booth."

His eyebrows raised when he heard was on the other end of the line, but he pulled out his notepad and started making notes based on what the caller was saying. He could feel Brennan's eyes on him but he couldn't afford to break his concentration. Soon enough, he was flipping the phone closed. He leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes.

"Something to do with the investigation?" Brennan asked.

"Yeah." Booth coughed. "That was the Special Agent in Charge of the field office in Kansas City. They've been notified that the body in the morgue belongs to the senator. Apparently, they'd been notified of some threats against Williams before he disappeared and had issued a protection detail."

Brennan made a face. "Ugh."

Donaldson leaned forward. "Are they going to try to have the case reassigned?"

Booth shook his head. "Nah. The guys from KC are pretty good. They know me. There's an agent we're supposed to meet at the campaign headquarters before we go around interviewing the staff.

"Has to be pretty embarrassing for those guys," Donaldson said, sitting back in his seat and smirking.

"It's embarrassing for the whole Bureau," Booth said mildly, giving Donaldson a narrow-eyed look in the rearview mirror.

Booth gave her the directions to the campaign headquarters he'd pulled off his phone, and after they'd filled the tank, they were off down the road. Salina turned out to be a good-sized city, and quite a far cry from the isolated little towns Booth had come to associate with the state. They maneuvered through carefully-laid-out streets to a strip mall and parked.

They opened the door and a fresh wave of the heavy heat that Booth had come to expect smacked them right in the face. Brennan gasped and reached into the glove box, quickly tying her hair back in a ponytail. Booth wished he could discard the suit for something cooler, but he was stuck in the FBI-standard getup. Donaldson wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.

"Let's stop standing around and get the hell inside," Booth suggested, letting Donaldson take the lead when he felt Brennan's hand on his arm.

"How are you feeling?" she whispered to him.

"Much better," Booth said with a smile. "Thanks, Bones."

She smiled brilliantly at him – one of those rare, truly pleased smiles that she hadn't gifted him with in far too long. Another knot of tension eased from his shoulders and he started to feel just a little more steady, not quite so unhinged.

"Being out in the field with you two is worse than being the pinch hitter," Donaldson called back to them, exasperated. "C'mon. It's hot as hell out here."

"We're coming, Agent Donaldson," Brennan said, her voice cool enough to reduce some of the August heat, but she didn't let go of Booth's arm. "Just as quickly as we can."

Donaldson rolled his eyes expressively, but when he was the first to reach the door he held it open gallantly for Brennan and Booth, gesturing that they were to precede him in. Booth gave him a slight nod of approval as he passed him, and just as soon as they were over the threshold, Brennan's hand slipped from his arm. Booth took a deep breath and approached the front desk, where a woman sat, volunteer button securely attached to her lapel, delicately wiping at her eyes with tissue.

"Hello," Booth said, flashing her a reassuring smile. She looked up and fluttered her eyelashes at him. He felt almost amused. She was twenty-five if she was a day, red-headed and green-eyed. Cute as a bug and way, way too young for him. Still, the attention was flattering and he turned up the charm a notch, flashing his badge smoothly. "I'm Special Agent Seeley Booth. I'm here to meet the Special Agent in Charge."

"Yeah, of course, of course," the woman said, wiping her eyes dramatically and flipping through the documents on her desk with an air of importance. "Let me just buzz him and let him know you're here."

"Not necessary, Alice," a tall African-American man said, stepping out from the hallway that stretched behind the lobby. He crossed the floor quickly and extended his hand. "I'm Special Agent Forrest. My men were in charge of the protection detail. It's good to meet you – I've heard a lot about you, Special Agent Booth."

"Lies and damn lies," Booth said jovially, trying to force some levity into his voice.

"You must be Dr. Temperance Brennan, then?" He extended one hand to her and shook hers firmly. "I loved the latest book. When does the next one come out?"

"I'm taking a brief hiatus," Bones said professionally.

"My wife's a writer," Agent Forrest said, gesturing down the hallway and assuming they'd follow him. "She's always going on about the fickleness of the muse."

"I've been in Indonesia," Brennan said bluntly. "I found it was more a lack of time than the fickleness of a mythical creature."

Agent Forrest's lips quirked in amusement. "Quite." He opened a door and gestured grandly. "It's not much, but go ahead and step inside our temporary headquarters, folks."

The room was painted industrial white. Long enough for one round conference table, an old-fashioned overhead projector and a computer, it was packed with equipment and every spare inch of the wall was taken. There were two doors to enter, and agents left and returned importantly, talking on cell phones, marking on a map and writing on a large dry-erase board that had been mounted on one wall.

Forrest issued a sharp whistle and everyone paused. "Take a break, everyone. Back in twenty."

They scattered, leaving the room completely free for Booth, Brennan and Donaldson. Forrest gestured for them to sit.

"Pretty sweet set-up you got here," Booth said with a half-smile.

"You make do with the facilities you have," Forrest said, with a chuckle. "We're going to upgrade just as soon as one of the hotels in town has a meeting room for us to requisition. I'm sorry, I'm afraid I didn't catch your associate's name, Agent Booth."

"Agent Donaldson," he introduced himself. "I, uh... work for Booth."

Forrest raised an eyebrow as if to say that were perfectly obvious without pointing it out. He reached for a file in one of the cabinets, snapped it open and sat. "I understand you'll be heading up the murder investigation and using the resources of the Jeffersonian, the facility that has already confirmed the identity of Senator Williams?"

"Yes."

"Good," Forrest said, making a notation in his file. "Only the best on this one. We need to wrap it up quickly, stop this bastard from getting anyone else."

"That assumes that the killer will feel the need to kill again," Brennan protested, "which is supposition at best."

"Your Doctor Sweets doesn't seem to think so," Forrest said. "How about I tell you what I know, and then you can tell me what you know?"

Brennan bit her lip, but Booth reached down and squeezed her knee in warning. "Sounds like a plan."

"In this year alone, we've intercepted well over a thousand threats of bodily harm or death on the Senator, only five of which were considered serious enough to prosecute. He was issued a protection detail for this campaign trip because of some abortion legislation he was pursuing in Congress. He had some pretty interesting threats against his life. Of course, uh... nothing as dramatic as what eventually happened to him." Forrest pulled out a few documents and handed them to the others.

"Yeah, well, it's the creeps who don't say anything you really have to be scared of," Booth said.

"Precisely, Agent Booth. What I've just given you is the itinerary for Senator Williams' most recent campaign. The last place he was seen publicly was at the Best Western at the Future Farmers of America state-wide dinner, where he gave a speech and accepted an award." Forrest tapped the sheet of paper. "All of the reports from my agents say that he made it to his hotel room in that same hotel safely, said goodnight and locked the door."

"The next morning he was gone?"

Forrest shook his head. "Not that unusual. Senator Williams took great delight in shaking off our protection. Apparently he only consented to protection to get his wife off of his back. She's got a legendary temper. He was last seen at nine pm. When we did our ten pm check, he was gone."

"How long did it take for you folks to come to the conclusion that he was missing?'

"We waited two hours before officially initiating emergency procedures." Booth raised his eyebrows but Forrest sighed. "As I said, Agent Booth, this was the kind of thing Williams was known for. You can only take it seriously so many times."

"Sounds like the Senator should have thought a little more thoroughly before slipping off all of those times," Donaldson said. Booth shot him an agitated look, but Brennan chuckled appreciatively.

"Yes, well. I very much wish that we had taken it more seriously at the time," Forrest said. "We were hoping the remains were a decoy of some kind."

Booth felt his temperature start to rise, but he took a deep breath. Of course the man didn't want his agency to look bad, and he probably didn't want to lose his job. Given how poorly the situation had been handled, however, Booth knew there was little chance that either one of those things would be possible once the press got a hold of the facts.

"So, let me get this timeline straight. He goes missing at ten pm on a Saturday night. You boys don't sound the alarm until just after midnight, Sunday. By that time he could be..."

"Anywhere." Donaldson piped up helpfully. "He could have been anywhere in a 100-mile radius from here."

"Precisely," Brennan agreed. "Was there a sign of a struggle in his hotel room?"

"No, as I said, all signs pointed to the situation being that the senator had merely slipped his agents again and taken a walk."

Brennan's eyes narrowed. "The body shows evidence of a peri-mortem struggle. There are hairline fractures in the radius of both arms, as well as bruising to several ribs."

"You'll find no evidence of anything like that in the senator's hotel room."

Booth found himself wishing he had the techs he was familiar with in D.C, the ones that he trusted implicitly. He'd gone into this interview with good faith, hoping to cooperate with the other agent, but now he was getting the distinct impression that the other man was more interested in covering his ass than following the evidence to a logical conclusion.

"Yeah, well, I'm going to have my people look into that," Booth said, raising his eyebrows. "Like you said, we're going to use the best on this one."

"By all means, Agent Booth. You'll find my people are very reliable. I can assure you that we've missed nothing of importance."

"A flawed premise," Brennan said, arching an eyebrow, "since it assumes infallibility. Very loyal of you, but not very logical at all."

Forrest coughed and straightened the papers in the file. "What can you tell me about the extent of your investigation so far?"

"We can tell you that the victim most likely died of a massive drug overdose, which may or may not have been forcibly administered. He was then attached to a pole, dressed as a scarecrow, and placed in a field." Brennan didn't mince any of her words. "He was left there for twelve to fourteen hours. We'll know more once more particulate evidence comes in."

"Was there a note? Anything that might have given away the killer's motivation, what they hope to gain? Anything we can link back to an organization?"

"Our profiler says no," Donaldson said firmly. "Whoever the murderer is, they've got a silent agenda, a goal they think is only achievable through this kind of bold statement."

"Yeah, well. You won't mind if we have our guys take a look at the file, will you Agent Booth? We don't want to assume infallibility." Forrest smiled grimly. "We do have fancy things like profilers out here."

Booth smirked. "Yeah, of course, Agent. Whatever you want; you've got the full cooperation of my team."

Several minutes later they were walking out the door to interview the widow of the late Senator Williams. Brennan put her sunglasses on and looked at Booth. "When you said he had our full cooperation, were you being sarcastic?"

Booth's face hardened. "Yeah, Bones, I was. I don't trust that guy any further than I could throw him. When we get back to the hotel tonight, I'm going to see what Hacker can dig up on this guy, but I think we're going to be handling this one ourselves."

"Smell a rat, sir?" Donaldson piped up, half-jogging to keep up with Booth.

"Not hard to do when he's right in front of your face, Donaldson." Booth opened the driver's side door and swung himself in.

"Funny," Brennan said, opening her door and sliding in the vehicle, "I rather thought he looked and smelled like a weasel."

Booth turned the ignition and laughed.

* * *

Sweets stood nervously at the door, his hands in his pockets. He waited for a moment before the door swung open and Rebecca stood there.

"Lance." She didn't look surprised. "What are you doing here in the middle of the afternoon?" she asked with wide, innocent eyes.

"I..." He shrugged his shoulders. "Thought it might be nice to see you. I remembered you said you had the day off and Parker was at that program, so..."

"Come on in." She stepped aside and he passed her. "Want to take your coat off? It's pretty hot out there."

He nodded, sliding his suit jacket from his body and hanging it on the coat rack that hung in the hallway. Rebecca gestured towards the kitchen and he followed her, watching her hips sway in cute cut-off jeans. Her hair was in a loose ponytail and she wore a Bon Jovi t-shirt. It was as deconstructed as he'd ever seen her – as honest as he'd ever seen her. He figured that was a sign from the Universe.

"Want a beer?"

Sweets laughed. "No, thanks."

"Soda?"

"Nah."

"Good roll in the hay?" She raised an eyebrow at him.

Sweets grinned. "If you insist."

Then they were meeting in the middle, his tie coming loose from around his neck thanks to her clever fingers, his pants unzipped, her shirt discarded. His hands cupped her ass firmly as they kissed, kneading the flesh there until she was pumping her hips against his. With one quick tug, her shorts fell to the floor. His shirt went next, tossed over the counter. Her eager hands pushed his a-shirt up and over his head until his naked chest pressed flush against her t-shirt.

Too much fabric was all Sweets could think, and he yanked her shirt over her head, and relieved her of her bra just as quickly.

"Bedroom," Rebecca said insistently, pushing him in that direction. They never really parted, though, quick hands gliding over skin and cotton and polyester, bunching in hair. Lips meeting, parting, tongues exploring.

They fell together on the bed and Sweets rolled over her, drawing one generous breast into his mouth and sucking deep. "Shit shit shit," Rebecca moaned. "Christ, you're good at that."

"Good at lots of things. Boy genius, me," Sweets muttered, kissing his way across the valley of her breasts.

Rebecca spread her legs pointedly. "So you've got a clever mouth, but can you multitask?"

Sweets proved he could, laving his tongue around her nipple and flicking it back and forth while his fingers found the cleft between her thighs and teased it to life. Soon she was bucking underneath of him, grasping on the sheets for purchase as she came, breathless and nearly soundless. Sweets loved watching her break apart underneath of him, loved the way her lips parted and her eyes fluttered and her cheeks flushed in just that way.

He was lost in his observations until her clever hand found his cock and squeezed pointedly. "Oh fuck," he moaned.

"Precisely," Rebecca whispered.

Some time later, they lay gasping, separate. Sweets found himself contemplating the ceiling, exhausted. He could smell her next to him, could taste her on his tongue. Her breathing filled his ears and he was content for a moment.

"I take it there's something on your mind," Rebecca said, rolling over to look him in the eye. "You want to tell me about it?"

"You missed your calling, you know. You should have been a psychologist." Sweets grinned. "A psychologist with a very... hands-on approach to therapy."

"It's much more fun as a hobby," Rebecca teased. "What's bugging you, though? Seriously."

"This case." Sweets sighed. "Everything about it, really."

Rebecca made a sympathetic face. "You're going out to help tomorrow, you know. You can't really do much until then."

"You ever get the feeling you're staring right at something – like something's right there but you just can't see it?"

Rebecca smiled sadly. "Yeah, I do."

Sweets balled his fists in frustration. "I'm not an idiot, you know."

"No, I know that."

"I'm _very_ good at my job. And just because..."

Rebecca leaned over and kissed his chest. "It's Booth." She laid her hand flat on his chest. "Not to sound creepy, discussing the ex in bed, but... he does have a way of demanding the inhuman from the people around him."

"I'm missing something. Something obvious." Sweets sighed again. "Something that would help."

"The case? Or Booth?"

"Yes." Sweets rubbed his eyes. "I'm very concerned about him. He -" Sweets huffed out another breath – "I've gotten reports from Donaldson that indicate he's being irritable, possibly in some physical pain..."

"Seeley's a big boy," Rebecca said soothingly. "He can handle himself. I can promise you that."

Sweets laughed ruefully. "Okay – so maybe the 'big boy' thing was a little bit much, Becs."

"Jealous? You shouldn't be. Younger men are so, mmm," she bent down and kissed him deeply, "enthusiastic."

Sweets shifted on the bed. "I guess that's one word for it."

"Don't worry about Booth. Not now, while you can't do anything about it." Rebecca cupped his cheek and sat up, reaching for her underwear. "Speaking of Booth, we've got to stop doing this or he'll kill you."

"I know." Sweets started to look for his boxer shorts. "I know. I just..."

She sighed, stopped, and pushed him back on the bed, kissing him again. "But. Parker's not due home for another hour. We don't have to stop right now."

Sweets chuckled. "Last time, swear."

Rebecca laughed. "Last time."


	9. Nine: In The Emerald City

**Author's Note: **I promised this would be a two-update week, and it is!

Some of the events and people mentioned in this chapter are based on actual events. The characters involved are politicians and some of the issues involved in their lives and deaths are hot-button issues. It doesn't really matter what I think of the issues discussed, only that murder is never a way to achieve political goals.

Special thanks to Amilyn, Kat Morning, and Cathmarchr for the fantastic beta jobs this time around. These ladies keep me grammatically correct, visually oriented and story-focused. Thank you!

That being said, we're off down the yellow brick road!

**Chapter Nine: In The Emerald City**

The widow, Mary Williams, was set up in one of the nicer hotels in Salina. Booth flashed his badge at the desk, took the elevator to the second floor, and knocked on the door of the hotel suite. Brennan stood behind him, her hands crossed over her chest already. Booth had a flash of Gordon Gordon saying something about defensive body language, and he smiled ruefully. The door opened, revealing a white-haired woman in a peach pant suit and pearls.

"You'd be the FBI, then?" She spoke with a slight twang. Not quite full-fledged Southern but flavored enough for Booth to raise his eyebrows.

"Yes. I'm Special Agent Seeley Booth, this is Dr. Temperance Brennan of the Jeffersonian Institute, and Agent Donaldson. We'd like to ask you a few questions, if we could."

Her lips curled up. "I'm sure you're quite capable, Special Agent Seeley Booth." She stepped aside, grandly gesturing past her. "Won't you come in?"

He could see the grind the last few days had taken on her. Her eyes were bloodshot and obviously sore. Her makeup had been applied a touch unevenly and her hands shook subtly. She tried to cover up the shock with manners and a slight sarcastic tone, but Booth summed her up quickly in his mind: she was truly a grieving wife. She might have even loved her husband. He'd figure that out soon enough.

"I have tea and water, if you'd like something to drink," Mrs. Williams said, gesturing towards the small kitchenette. "Other than that, I'm not sure I could offer anything else, although there is, of course, always room service. I'm afraid my husband's staff has been taking care of me for the past few days. "

"No thank you, ma'am. Can we, uh, sit?" Booth asked. Mrs. Williams nodded her assent and Booth made himself comfortable on one of the couches.

Brennan, still strangely silent, took a seat next to Booth and crossed her legs, obviously waiting for him to take the lead. Booth fought off an edge of discomfort. She was rarely like this – rarely so obviously observant. He wondered if the feeling of being a bug under a microscope was what it was like to be the subject of her anthropological attention.

Agent Donaldson cleared his throat. "Ma'am, we're so very sorry for your loss."

She nodded, arranging herself in one of the armchairs. "Thank you very much."

"Can you tell us why you felt Senator Williams was in danger?"

Mrs. Williams sighed. "Barney never took me, or the threats seriously, I'm sad to say. Our constituency out here is largely socially conservative. Last year, when he was trying to get the health care bill pushed through Congress, the committee he was on accepted an amendment to the bill which made it more difficult for states to limit access to abortion and gave some federal funds to Planned Parenthood."

"And you thought he might get killed for that?" Booth asked. The muscles in his back were knotting again, and he shifted uncomfortably.

"I wasn't concerned until the death threats came," Mrs. Williams said, turning her wedding ring around her finger. "And when they killed that doctor out of Wichita last year, well... I thought it might be better to be safe than sorry, especially since they were able to trace the threats from our home state."

"Were they able to link the threats to a particular group?" Donaldson piped up, scribbling something in his notepad.

"No, I'm afraid not." Mrs. Williams sighed. "It was extremely frustrating, dealing with the authorities when they seemed to care very little for my husband's safety."

"I apologize, ma'am. I'm certain the Bureau did everything in its power," Donaldson said earnestly.

Booth nodded, wincing and rubbing his eyes. "Agent Forrest out of Kansas City tells me that there were only five threats they considered serious enough to pursue an investigation of?"

"Yes. I can't remember the details, I'm sorry."

Brennan stood and walked to the kitchenette, pulling open the refrigerator door and selecting a bottle of water. She returned and handed it to Booth.

"Were there any other concerns, besides the abortion extremists?"

Mrs. Williams looked a little stunned when Brennan actually spoke, but she cleared her throat. "There are certainly people who would stand to gain from his death."

"Money from an estate, perhaps?"

"Well... they would have to kill me also to receive any inheritance from the estate, and honestly it's not worth what it used to be." Mrs. Williams sighed. "He had political rivals, in-state and out. He was a judge at one time so there might be some former convicts that would want him dead... I lay awake at night and I think... I just think of everyone who could have possibly done this thing, and I just don't know, Dr. Brennan."

"I understand." Brennan surprised Booth into speechlessness when she reached across the room and squeezed Mrs. Williams' hand. "I know what it is to feel responsible for the unfortunate circumstances that befall your partner in life, but logically, if you weren't the killer, there was nothing you could have done." Booth winced, looking anywhere but at his partner.

Mrs. Williams' eyes swam with tears as she looked up. "They told me he was... stuffed in a scarecrow?"

Brennan's voice was gentle but she did not flinch from the truth. "Yes, that is how we found his remains."

"Did it hurt?"

Brennan shook her head. "He was dead long before his body was moved, Mrs. Williams."

"Good." Mrs. Williams wiped her tears with the back of her hand. "I just couldn't bear the thought that he'd suffered at all."

Brennan bit her lip and squeezed the widow's hand.

They were walking down the hallway several minutes later when Donaldson cleared his throat nervously. Neither one of the partners had talked, both absorbed in their separate worlds. Their heads snapped up, nearly in unison, with a similar look of irritation on each face. "What?" Booth snapped.

"What do we do next?"

"You figure out who his political rivals were. I want to know everything there is to know about what legislation he was pushing through, which bills he was endorsing. I want to know who he was sleeping with. I want to know what he put in his coffee, and I want to know yesterday."

Donaldson scribbled furiously on a pad. "Is that, uh, everything, sir?"

"It's just Booth, dammit."

"Booth." Brennan's voice deflated his shoulders. "Agent Donaldson, Booth will apologize later when he's feeling better."

"Bones, I'm not a damn kid."

Brennan took a step closer to him. "Then stop acting like one. Agent Donaldson, thank you very much."

Summarily dismissed, the junior agent walked away quickly, a distinct air of relief about him. Booth counted to ten before he turned to Brennan. "Are you my mother now?"

"No. That would be impossible."

"Anthropologically speaking," Booth said with a sneer, taking a step inside of her personal space, "are you feeling the need to fix me, Bones, that comes from your hunter-gatherer days of repairing the wounded?"

"Hardly," Brennan said, stepping closer to him, her eyes flashing. "I am just stopping you from behaving like an asshole."

"Very colloquial, Bones. I'm not sure I like it."

"Well, I'm not sure I like you, the way you're acting now." Brennan's eyes were still blue, but they were on fire. "You're lying to me, and treating Agent Donaldson like an ass..."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Wait a damn minute." He backed her up against the wall, one hand flat against the surface as he stared down at her. "What the hell do you think I'm lying to you about?"

"You were hurt." Brennan pushed him back with a hand. "You were hurt in Afghanistan and you didn't tell me."

Booth felt like ice-water had been thrown over him. "How did you know?"

"I've suspected for a long time, however, I wasn't certain until I saw you sit on the couch." Brennan narrowed her eyes. "Were you shot? Blown up? Fall from a very great height? Possibly onto your head?"

He snorted. "No, Bones. I did not fall on my head."

"What, then?"

"It was an accident. I... aggravated some of the injuries to my ribcage..."

"From when you were protecting your friend?"

"Yeah. And I messed up my back again." Booth coughed. "They had me right as rain in a few days, no big deal. I was back in the field and..."

She reached up and grabbed his face with her two hands, gritting her teeth. "Booth, you tell me when you get hurt."

"I do?"

"Yes."

"Even when you've just run all the way across the world so you don't have to look at me anymore?" Booth growled. "Everything changed, Bones."

She let that slide for a moment and he heaved a sigh of relief. "Does Parker know? Rebecca?"

"There was no need to worry anyone, Bones. I was fine."

"You are not. You are uncomfortable, irritated, fatigued, in pain. Booth, you shouldn't be out in the field, you should..."

"Temperance." He slammed his hand against the wall. "Leave it the fuck alone."

"No." She grabbed his wrist with her hand and circled it lightly with two fingers, gently reminding him of her presence. "Stop that. You stop that. You are not a bully, Booth, so stop trying to intimidate me. I'm not going anywhere."

"You already left, Bones. You talk a big game about partners and being here for me and a social contract but I'm done with that crock of crap, okay? I said let's give this a shot, you said fuck no and next thing I know you're in the goddamn Naboombu Islands or where-the-fuck ever and I'm in Afghanistan. I got blown to hell and all I could do was thank God you weren't there to see it, Bones. But I wanted you there. I wanted to write and have you come and hold my hand but... we're done with that, aren't we?"

"I'm your friend."

"Huh." All of the life seemed to deflate out of him and he bent from the shoulders. "And you don't... you don't understand why I can't, do you?"

"Why you can't what, Booth?"

"Why I can't let you nurse me back to health, pass me little white pills and water bottles and hold my hand when the going gets tough."

"I... don't, no... I thought that was what friends do."

Booth laughed harshly, without humor. "Friends, yeah, Bones." He sighed. "Okay. Fine."

"No, Booth. You are saying fine, but you do not believe it." Gently she pushed him upright, and spun them so that he was against the wall. Gently, she cupped his face in her hands. "Everything changes, Booth. Nothing is certain, nothing is concrete. Even... me. _I_ change, Booth."

His eyes widened and he swallowed. "Christ Jesus, Temperance. What are you saying?"

"I wrote to you, all the time. I just... always found some excuse not to mail the letters." Her eyes didn't quite meet his. "And sometimes I'd catch myself starting conversations with you although I knew you weren't there, and I missed you."

"Bones."

"And all of this time I'd been thinking... I thought that demonstrably, such affection... such need was a sign of weakness, that I'd somehow managed to rise above my _need_ for you." She shook her head. "I can live without you, Booth. I can."

"Nobody ever questioned that, Bones. Nobody."

"I did." Brennan raised her eyes and smiled at him, slowly, genuinely. A smile without artifice. A smile to show she was trying. "I didn't like it, though. Being apart did nothing to relieve my worry for your safety. In fact, it may have caused some increased anxiety."

Booth laughed, a sharp laugh of disbelief that sliced like a knife across his ribs and he hid the wince of pain. "Bones... you really just... You surprise the hell out of me sometimes."

"Is that a good thing?" Her eyebrows were raised.

"Yeah."

"I do not know how to be the woman you want me to be, Booth. That has remained unchanged." Bones took his hand, squeezed it. "If... if you still want me, you'll have to show me how to be her. Because I... I don't know how."

Booth felt waves of cold shock wash over him. "I want you to be you, Bones. With one-hundred percent less leaving when it gets scary."

"I can try. I can... try staying. If you want. Do you still want me?" Brennan's voice was small. "Angela... Angela said I should wait to tell you until I thought you were better, that I shouldn't rush things because..."

His mouth was on hers before he'd even realized he'd done it. Her hands bunched immediately in his suit jacket, twisting the fabric around and drawing him closer. She made all of those delicious little kissing sounds that he loved that only he could hear. Her hands were tight, but so, he realized, were his, cupping her ass, drawing her firmly towards him and not letting her escape for a moment. She tasted sweet and perfect and... Bones. He'd sampled her far too rarely, but she was his Turkish Delight. He could never get enough of her.

They broke apart, panting, their eyes glazed over in wonder. Booth shook his head and coughed. "That is precisely what we can't do, Bones."

"On the contrary, I think we just demonstrated that we are very good at that."

Booth chuckled. "Oh, we're going to be good at more than that. But we can't... we can't stop in the middle of investigation for that."

Brennan raised an eyebrow. Booth sighed. "Okay, so that was more of a note to myself."

As she passed him, Brennan grinned over her shoulder at him. "Maybe now you'll be in a better mood."

Booth grinned until what she said sunk in. "Hey!"

She laughed all the way to the car, until Booth stopped her from opening her door. "Bones?"

"What, Booth?"

"I still want you. Never stopped. You are the standard, the tops, the only one, okay? So don't ever... don't ever worry about that, no matter how bad I get."

Brennan narrowed her eyes and considered him for a moment. Finally, she nodded and swung herself into the SUV, shutting the door.

* * *

Donaldson stood in the hallway, shocked, for a long moment before he flipped open his phone, scrolled through, selected a number and pressed talk. It rang for several minutes before a breathless woman answered the phone. "Dr. Sweets' phone. Is this an emergency?"

He could hear the distinct sound of someone groaning in the background, and Donaldson cursed his luck. Everyone around him was getting laid and they were all crazy. "Yeah, it's important. He's gonna want to know this."

"Can I ask who's calling?"

"Kent Donaldson," he said, rolling his eyes.

"Kent Donaldson for you," the woman said. There was a longer pause while the two had an exchange Donaldson couldn't hear, and then –

"Agent Donaldson! What's up?"

"Those two are completely crazy, not to mention extremely difficult to work with," Donaldson began.

"Yeah, well, I told you all of that in the beginning," Sweets said, a little impatiently. Donaldson counted to ten. He was getting a little tired of being treated as less-than-intelligent. "What's the emergency, man?"

"Well, I hate to interrupt your afternoon delight for something as trivial as this, but..."

"Yes?"

"It is my professional opinion that Agent Booth and Doctor Brennan are going to sleep together. Sooner rather than later."

Sweets huffed into the receiver. "I've thought that for years, Agent Donaldson. It's very unlikely, no matter what you think you've seen."

"Really? Because I'm pretty sure I just saw Agent Booth's tongue down Doctor Brennan's throat and his hands on a pretty indecent place on her posterior end." There was a shocked silence. "Of course, you know, I could be wrong. It could be the _other_ auburn-haired scientist and overly-macho agent I hang out with all the time."

"This... this is not good." Donaldson could hear the rustling of fabric, some thumps and bumps, and he smirked when he heard the doctor yelp in pain. Then he had the thunk of a door closing. "This is mega-not-good."

"Why, Dr. Sweets? I thought this was what you wanted," Donaldson said. "They seemed to have a handle on things."

"Ha!" Donaldson could practically see Sweets' eye roll. "That's what they're both good at: pretending they have a handle on things when really... the whole situation could blow up at any moment."

"Are you sure you're not projecting?"

"Positive." Sweets sighed. "Listen, I'm bringing Parker and we're coming out there a day earlier than scheduled. We'll call it an early Christmas present to Booth."

"What are you worried about, Sweets? What could possibly happen?"

"Worst case scenario? They fall into bed right now, when Booth's a wreck and Brennan doesn't have her feet underneath of her."

"Are you concerned for Booth's mental health, Sweets? Cause I have to tell you, I'm convinced he's just kind of an ass."

"He has that tendency," Sweets said. "But that's definitely not Booth all of the time. I wasn't allowed to do a psych eval on Agent Booth before he went back in the field. I have no idea what state he's in, but I will tell you this: I have read the file on him from when he got back from the first Gulf War, and I'm telling you. We need to keep an eye on him."

"Oh."

"Oh what, Agent Donaldson?"

"Agent Booth and Dr. Brennan just drove off." He coughed. "Ah... without me."

Sweets groaned. "Perfect. Just... perfect."

* * *

Every Thursday, Tom O'Hara opened his dry cleaning business in Oberlin at seven o'clock in the morning. It took a while to get everything started, but he liked moving kind of slow first thing, giving all of his muscles a chance to wake up and remember how to work properly.

He started the percolator as he did every morning and watched, disinterested and half-asleep, as the coffee dripped down into the pot. After a few moments, he pushed himself off the counter and started the machines that did the cleaning, then switched on the neon open sign hanging in the window.

His door jingled and he looked up. "You!"

"Hello Tom."

"What are you -"

"I'm sorry."

A needle inserted into his flesh, the quick bite of poison into his veins, a cold sensation as it worked through his body and then – nothing. Nothing at all.

* * *

"Where are we going, Booth?" Brennan asked him. He was smiling, a real genuine smile, she realized. It had been way too long since she had seen that.

"We're going to go see an old friend of mine," Booth said easily.

Brennan was taken aback. "Do you have friends everywhere?"

"What? No." Booth laughed. "Just in Nevada and Kansas. An old Army buddy of mine was from here."

"Why are we going to see him?"

"If anyone knows about abortion extremists, it'll be Todd." Booth laughed. "Although by the time we were done with our tour we'd all taken to calling him Tuck."

"Why?"

"Why was he called Tuck? Or why would he know about extremists?"

"Either."

"He planned to joined the priesthood when he got out. Which he did. He's a priest in the Fransciscan order, not just your normal, run-of-the-mill parish priest."

"Ah so he received his nickname from the mythic monk who assisted Robin Hood, because that's what he looks like?"

Booth looked at her like she'd grown another head. "Yeah, Bones, that would be the one."

"He's an interesting addition to the legend. Did you know he never appeared in the earliest ballads?" Brennan realized she was babbling, but she had to do something to keep her mind from slipping back to the kiss and the way his hands had felt on her.

"I... did not know that."

"Maid Marian is also a late addition. That has somehow always disappointed me," Brennan admitted. "I know it's irrational, but..."

"I always thought she needed to kick a little more ass, you know? Damsels in distress. Boring."

Brennan laughed. "You are _such_ a liar."

Booth winked at her, chuckling as he adjusted his sunglasses, and she felt, for the first time in a while, like the Booth she knew was back. Perhaps, she thought with a small smile, she should have shouted at him and kissed him before then.

They pulled into a quiet church and parked the car. Booth turned to her. "Okay, listen. Tuck's a good guy. The best, really. So... a little respect, yeah?"

"Booth, I have always been respectful of your beliefs."

"Right." Booth's eyes crinkled. "Okay, then... more respectful than usual, please. As a personal favor to me."

"We're going to ask him about abortion extremists, Booth. A certain amount of disrespect might be required."

"Oh, he won't be insulted," Booth said, swinging open his door. "Tuck knows how it goes."

They knocked on the door to the rectory and were admitted by an ancient woman in a lavender dress. She gestured for them to wait and then knocked on the priest's office door. After a long moment, the man appeared. Brennan couldn't fight the childish glee that sprung up in her when she saw him.

He wore a long robe, cinched simply at the waist. His head was shaved and his feet were clad in sandals, and he was slightly large. Brennan couldn't help but credit Booth for another apt nickname.

"Seels?" The man's voice was a booming baritone, and he flew across the room, wrapping Booth in a hug. "Well, look at you, stranger. The cat drug you in, huh?"

"Something like that."

"Surprised to see you here. Word on the street was that you'd re-upped as a specialist. Heard they sent you to the desert for your sins."

"You still in touch with Jones and Murph, then? They talk too damn much," Booth grumbled. "Yeah, I was there up until about five days ago."

"You know, you don't have to assign yourself time in Purgatory. The Good Lord will do that for you when your time comes," Tuck said, a hint of the serious beneath his teasing tone. "And who is this with you?"

"This is my partner, Dr. Temperance Brennan. She's a forensic anthropologist from the Jeffersonian institute."

Tuck reached out and wrapped her hand in both of his. "Very pleased to meet you. I hear good things."

"I have enjoyed hearing about you for the last few minutes, as well," Brennan said honestly.

"Oh, ouch." Tuck patted his stomach. "Really, Seels? No mentions ever?"

Booth coughed. "Nothing personal. I don't really..."

"Ah, yes. Still coping with the turtle shell, I see. Well, all's well that ends well," he said blithely, pointing them inside his office. "Shall we go in?"

"Sure. After you, Bones."

She turned and gave him a look, but took the lead through the doorway. Booth stopped Tuck with an open hand. "Listen. No funny business in there. Just... let sleeping dogs lie, okay?"

"Booth." Tuck's eyes were steel – the soldier still hidden somewhere beneath the saint. "I won't betray your trust, I promise."

He huffed out a breath. "Good."

The door closed behind him and Tuck rubbed his hands together. "Now. What kind of cookies do you two like to eat?


	10. Ten: The Tin Man

**Author's Note: **Thanks to Kat Morning and Cathmarchr for the beta on this chapter. The fact that it's late rests entirely on my shoulders. Real life interfered in my usually-regular writing schedule. I'm hoping to have another chapter for you Monday,as well!

**Chapter Ten: The Tin Man**

Parker sat next to Dr. Sweets on the plane, reading a Green Lantern comic book that his dad had given him just a few minutes before he'd left for the Army again. He'd read it a dozen or so times in the year that Dad had been gone, but he never really got tired of it. Sweets had tried to engage him in a conversation, but Parker was ten and he wasn't a kid anymore and he knew exactly what Sweets had been up to with his mother just hours before he'd gotten home from the summer program where he spent his days.

It wasn't like he was expecting his mother and father to fall back in love and move in together. He couldn't remember a time when they were together. They told him that they'd been in love when he'd been... made, but they weren't now. Over the course of his life, his mother had boyfriends and his father had girlfriends, and then his mom had Drew and Dad had Bones. Drew eventually went away but Bones never did, as constant in his father's life as Drew had been in his mother's.

So it wasn't that Sweets wasn't his father. It was that Sweets was his father's _friend_, and that was just weird. Super weird. And now they were on a plane to suprise his dad. Parker wasn't sure how he felt about, either.

"Parker, do you want a soda?" Sweets asked him. He looked up and realized that there was a flight attendant smiling at him with a pad of paper.

"Uh, yeah sure. Mountain Dew." Parker closed his comic book and put it back in his backpack.

"Want a piece of gum? My ears always pop on these flights," Sweets said, as though he were confiding some great secret. Parker fought the urge to roll his eyes. There were distinct disadvantages to his golden curls. It seemed he was doomed to being treated like a toddler for the rest of his life.

"Brought my own," Parker said coolly. "Mom bought it for me earlier this week."

"Oh. Well, uh, that's good." Sweets turned his attention back to whatever he was reading. It was thick, and Parker's naturally friendly disposition got the better of his intentions to make Sweets pay for the rest of the flight.

"Do they make you read that because you're a doctor?"

"What this? No." Sweets laughed. "A friend wrote this book. She's hoping to get it published. I'm just making some notes for her."

"Have you ever written a book?"

Sweets coughed. "Uh, yeah. I didn't get it published, though."

"Why's that?"

"I started with a flawed premise," Sweets said, all trace of condescension finally gone from his voice. "If your beginning is wrong, all of your conclusions are going to be wrong, as well."

"Makes sense." Parker shrugged his shoulders. "Well, that sucks. I'm sorry."

Sweets' lips quirked in a smile. "Thanks, Parker. What were you reading?"

"It's a Green Lantern comic book," Parker said. "I brought some other stuff to read, too, but I like him."

"I like him, too. I'm more of a Spider-man fan myself, though," Sweets said, his eyes lighting with genuine interest. "You know, the nerd who secretly gets to go out and save the world..."

"Yeah, that's pretty cool." Parker reached inside his backpack, pulled out a different book and opened it. "Dad and I read these comic books together."

"Like your own comic book club?"

"I guess so," Parker said doubtfully. "But cooler. None of the other guys' dads still read comic books."

"Your dad's a pretty cool guy," Sweets said, and Parker could tell that he genuinely meant it.

"Yeah, I think so." Parker tapped his hands on the tray in front of him. "Mom doesn't know that I know, but... he had to fight really hard to get to see me when I was younger."

"How does that make you feel?" Sweets asked, his eyebrows raised.

"A little guilty," Parker admitted. "I really want him to be proud of me. You know... to prove I'm worth it."

"Are you nervous about going to see him?" Sweets popped a peanut in his mouth and ignored the attention they were garnering from the other passengers.

"Yeah." Parker flipped open the book, closed it. "I don't get to be around much when he's working, usually. Lots of gross stuff – dead bodies, bugs, slime, that kind of thing. And scary people. He just doesn't want me to get hurt."

"That's a big part of it," Sweets agreed. "Your father also doesn't want you to have to confront the realities of his profession sooner than you're ready to."

Parker laughed. "Yeah, well, too late. He's been shot, blown up, in a coma..."

"Yeah. He's a little bit like Batman that way, isn't he?"

Parker nodded. "Yeah, but Mom really doesn't like it. Every time something happens, she'll say that maybe I shouldn't see Dad as often, you know."

"I think your mom sometimes has a hard time dealing with the reality of your dad's profession, that's true," Sweets acknowledged. "She worries that it's frightening for you, too."

"It doesn't matter that I'm scared." Parker shrugged. "He's Dad, you know?"

"Yeah, I do." Sweets took his drink from the flight attendant, and passed Parker his soda. "You know, your dad is really going to be excited to see you. He's proud of you, Parker."

"Thanks, Lance," Parker took a gulp of his soda and beamed. "I can't wait to see him!"

* * *

It was cooling but still light outside when the battered pick-up bounced down the drive way and swung in to park next to the barn. The smell of barbecue drifted over Hebrew and Hal Rettinger as they climbed out of the truck. They grabbed the bag of dogfood they'd run to town to get and headed toward the house.

Hal, Hank's older brother, broke off from his father halfway there. "Oh crap. Hey Dad, go ahead. I forgot I meant to check on that heifer in the barn."

"All right, but we're not holding supper for you," Hebrew said with a teasing glint in his eyes. "This way we all have a fair shot at actually getting to eat."

"Ha!" Hal said. "I'm a growing boy, Dad! I need all the calories I can get."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah." Hebrew waved him off and continued on towards the house.

Hal's stomach was growling but he'd been raised all of his life to respect the animals under his care, and the heifer had managed to hurt its leg pretty badly in a patch of barbed wire. He'd done the doctoring himself, and wanted to make sure the wound hadn't become infected. He flipped on the light and was halfway to the holding area when the smell assaulted him.

He'd been a farm kid long enough recognize that smell. It was the smell of death.

At first he thought it had to be the heifer, but she was laying sedately in the corner, munching on some of the feed he'd left for it her. He spun, looking for the source – perhaps a dead rat or – a mouse skittered across the top of his boot, and Hal followed the rodent to a corner of the barn that was poorly lit until he flipped another switch.

What he saw stopped him in his tracks. The corner which had previously been devoted to bags of feed and farm implements had been transformed into a stage for a unique display of horror.

It had probably been human. That was Hal's first thought – at some point this... sculpture... had been human. Encased now in some kind of metal from his feet to his neck, a jaunty metal cap at an angle on his head, rats worked tirelessly on the exposed flesh of the face and the hands. It took several seconds for Hal to realize what he was seeing.

He ran for the door, holding his hand over his mouth until he reached the outside and dry heaved.

* * *

Tuck offered them several kinds of desserts from all over his office. He stashed them, apparently, away from the prying eyes of his parish administrator, Evelyn, who was trying to keep the slightly-obese clergyman on a diet. Booth took a handful of cookies and Brennan reached for a chocolate chip cookie, hoping that having something in her hands to nibble would distract her from replaying her _I don't know how to be the woman you want to be... If you still want me, you'll have to show me how to be her_ declarations over and over in her head. Was she really so needy?

"Now, Seeley." Tuck sat behind his desk, opening a Twinkie with great relish. "You don't just come to see me out of the blue. What can I do for you?"

"Senator Kent Williams is dead," Booth said, without ceremony. "The Bureau sent me out here to figure out who did it."

"Ah, Williams." Tuck opened a drawer in his desk and began rummaging among the pens and paperclips for something. "We met a few times at political fundraisers, that kind of thing, but I couldn't really say I was close to the man. What makes you think I know anything about that?"

Booth smiled. "I don't think you do."

"Political fundraisers?" Brennan's eyebrows rose.

"Yes, I'm very involved in local politics." At Brennan's doubting look, Tuck laughed. "It's hard not to care when you see the effects of poverty and social injustice in your flock everyday, Dr. Brennan. Christ reminds us that there are, for those of us who have to live in the world, duties which we must perform as citizens of that world. I was a soldier, now I'm a conscientious voter."

Booth coughed. "Speaking of your political affiliations, I do think you could tell me about some of the death threats he received."

Tuck's eyebrows rose. "What kind of death threats?"

"From extremists," Brennan said, "presumably on the opposite side of the political spectrum from him. When we spoke with Mrs. Williams, she seemed very concerned about a healthcare bill that Mr. Williams was working on."

Booth continued Brennan's train of thought. "There was an abortion rider attached, Tuck."

"Ah, yes, I remember." Tuck rubbed his eyes with both hands. "Very upsetting, that. Very upsetting."

"Why?" Brennan asked, blinking her eyes. "He made a political deal which will allow thousands of women and children to have access to low-cost healthcare. We would get nowhere in politics without meeting in the middle."

"Bones," Booth said firmly. "We don't have to get into this, okay? You two aren't even on the same planet when it comes to this stuff."

"Dr. Brennan is entitled to her own opinion, Seeley." Tuck waved his hand. "But you're right, a debate here will only slow you down. I can give you some names – people that might get violent, that kind of thing. I'll also include the presidents here of 'Catholic Voters of Kansas' and 'Pro-Life Kansans'. They might be able to give you a better idea of the hotheads – those groups are legitimate but they've certainly got contacts to groups that aren't as much."

"I figured you might be able to," Booth said with a smile. "I appreciate this, Father, I really do."

"Not a problem." Tuck began to scribble on a pad of paper.

"You have any impressions of the man, from the few times you met him?" Booth asked. "Whether he was honest, that kind of thing?"

"He was very polite on the few occasions that we met," the priest said, breaking one of the golden cakes in half and studying the inside cream for a minute. "But all of the politicians seem to be, you know."

"I understand his public image was a bit slimy," Booth said.

"I don't know that I'd go that far, but you know most folks around here wouldn't trust a politician for much. Especially not one that's been in Washington for twenty years. There was a little talk that maybe he'd lost focus of the people he was supposed to represent. I heard a rumor about the party maybe going in a new direction."

Booth made a note on his pad. "Serious talk?"

"There was a name floating around. Douglas Michaels. Nice enough guy. He's the representative for the second district. Socially middle-of-the-line and fiscally conservative. He'd've been a big hit, except for his stance on illegal immigration."

"Hmm," Booth said, scribbling some more. "Did you ever meet the wife?"

"Of Senator Williams?" At Booth's nod, the priest coughed and adjusted his robe. "Yes, I've had that honor, once or twice."

"Is she capable of killing her husband?" Brennan asked bluntly.

"I can't think of any good reason why she would need to, to be perfectly frank with you," Tuck said. "But then again, I'm not their confessor or a close friend of the family, so I couldn't say."

"Ah, okay, thanks, Tuck." Booth closed his notepad and tucked it away in his suit pocket.

"It's getting close to the end of the working day. Are you going to join us for supper? Evelyn can't cook worth a damn, so you'd have to suffer through my mostacolli but..."

Booth's cell phone began to ring. He took a look at it and excused himself to outside the office.

"So." Tuck smiled at Brennan, and for the first time she saw the soldier which must have been buried somewhere underneath of the priest. "You're Seeley's partner?"

"Yes. At work. Work... partners."

"Also his friend, I imagine." Tuck rose from behind his desk, and moved to sit next to her in the seat Booth had occupied. "Seeley talked about you when we spoke for the last few years. He said you uh, helped him when he had the surgery."

"Yes," Brennan said, going a little cold and sweaty. "He refused to believe something was wrong, but... I'm sorry, Booth doesn't usually like people discussing his private life behind his back."

Tuck laughed, a full-bellied chuckle. "No, he really doesn't. Not much has changed." He leaned forward. "I want you to do me a favor. I want you to keep an eye on him. He's got that look in his eye."

"What look?"

"The look that says he's not handling being back well. Seeley's got what we Catholics call the package guilt complex. Comes with the territory. Assuming responsibility for everything that happens around you, the decisions of other people..."

"Yes, I have observed that character trait in him many times," Brennan admitted.

Tuck tapped his fingers on the desk. "Listen, I could be wrong, but I think you should stick close, Temperance. I don't know exactly what's going on, but..."

Brennan's eyes narrowed. "What did Booth say when you two talked about me?"

"He told me you were beautiful," Tuck said easily. "Among other things."

"Bones?" Booth stuck his head in the office and smiled sheepishly at Tuck. "Thanks for the dinner invitation, Tuck, but we've got to drive back tonight. We've got another body."

Brennan blinked. "What?"

"Another body on the Rettinger's farm. Encased in some kind of... metal... this time." Booth grabbed her arm and started tugging her gently towards the door. "Thanks for the help, Tuck!"

"You're welcome, Seeley," Tuck said softly, and shook his head as the door swung shut behind Booth. After a moment, he picked up the phone and began to dial.

* * *

Angela sat in Hodgins' office, waiting for the mass spec to finish running the last of the tests on a few fibers he'd had yet to identify. She'd been ready to go for what seemed like ages, but she hadn't wanted to drive to work by herself this morning, she was stuck waiting for Hodgins to complete his tasks. Normally, he'd have no problem shutting down and leaving right at five o'clock, but he was currently absorbed in the mass spec readings, marking furiously on his tablet of paper in his coded language. Angela was trying to be respectful of his process, but her back had really begun to ache, and she was more than ready to go home.

A soft knock at the door made Angela raise her head from the sketchpad she had on her lap. "Hi, Cam."

Cam stuck her head in the door and smiled sheepishly. "I know Hodgins is busy, but do you want to join me in an end-of-day cup of tea? For you, I mean. I'll be drinking coffee."

Angela smiled in relief. "Absolutely, sure." The two women walked in companionable silence to the couches overlooking the forensics platform. Cam's hips swayed confidently and Angela fought to keep her gait from being the waddle she was beginning to see as inevitable.

Cam poured the water for Angela after she poured steaming hot coffee into her own mug. She took a seat while she waited for it to boil and smiled at Angela. "It's good to have you guys back, you know."

"I felt bad leaving you here in the lurch," Angela said, wincing a little, "but how often does your husband offer to take you to Paris for a year of honeymooning?"

"Once in a lifetime," Cam said with a small smile. "Did you enjoy it?"

"It took about a half a second for my French to come back," Angela said, beaming. "We got this little... hovel of an apartment in downtown Paris. Jack explored museums and crawled along riverbanks and I did some paintings that I'm arranging to have shipped back over. It was... lovely. How about you? How was the Jeffersonian while we were gone?"

"Busy," Cam admitted. "Clark and Wendell and I managed to hobble along, though." She grinned. "It's good to have you two back, though. It certainly wasn't the same without you."

"Done!" They heard Hodgins announce from the platform.

"What've you got, Hodgins?" Cam asked, leaning over the railing to look down.

"Stray fibers on the victims' clothing aren't as useful as I'd hope they'd be. Your typical pollen, hay, that kind of thing. There were several strands of cotton and nylon fabric blends that you would find in seat belts. I can't trace the specific blend to a particular manufacturer; the blend is far too common," Hodgins said, frowning. "What I can tell you is that there were faint traces of diesel fuel on the victim's clothing as well as a single fiber from the upholstery of a 1980s-era Ford. Maybe that's what the murderer used to haul him across the state."

"Great, Hodgins." Cam nodded encouragingly at Hodgins. "Not a smoking gun, but still good work. I'll give Booth a call."

"Sounds good. Ready to go, babe?" Hodgins called, already taking off his lab coat. "I can get back to all this stuff tomorrow."

"Yeah." Angela turned to Cam and embraced the other woman easily. "You know, I never thought I would be homesick for dead bodies and daily yuck, but... It's really, really good to be back."

Cam smiled. "Good."

* * *

The phone rang as Angela and Hodgins made their way home. Angela flipped her phone open with a grin. "Sweetie!"

"Hello, Angela," Brennan said dryly. "Booth got a text message from Cam that Hodgins had some test results? We're on the road again so I have dialing-duty."

"Oh, okay. I'll put you speaker," Angela said, propping the phone up on its charger and relaxing? back against the seat.

"Hey Hodgins, it's Booth. What have you got for me?"

Hodgins glanced over at the receiver and hesitated for a moment. He'd become a lot more cautious in recent days, as if he were unsure of himself, somehow. It was definitely an odd characteristic for him, and Angela couldn't put her finger on why he was acting this way. All she knew was she was too tired to figure out precisely how she felt about it just then. Her eyes drifted shut as Hodgins began to recite the results of his mass spec tests.

She could have sworn she had only closed her eyes when Hodgins shook her thigh. "What?"

"Dr. B wants to talk to you," he said softly. "Not on speaker phone."

"Oh." Angela sat up. "You let me sleep?" she hissed, realizing they were a good ten minutes into their drive.

"You looked like you needed it," Hodgins said with a shrug of his shoulders.

Angela lifted the phone from its cradle and took it off speaker. "Sweetie," she said brightly, "How's Kansas?"

"Hot and miserable," Brennan said succinctly. "We're on the road again, back to the crime scene. It appears that they've located another body."

"Do we need to head back to the lab?"

Hodgins shook his head firmly at her, but Angela waved her hand at him.

"Doubtful. KBI techs have already begun processing the scene, although everything having to do with the body will have to wait until I get there. In any case, it should be noon tomorrow before I'm able to ship anything back to the Jeffersonian."

"How do they know it's the same killer?"

"At this point, we are unsure of that," Brennan said, and Angela heard the faint sound of jingling bells. "You'll have to excuse me, we've stopped to get some coffee for the trip back to Decatur County. We're at a gas station."

"That's fine, Sweetie. The victim?"

"It uh... appears that he's been placed inside some sort of suit of armor."

Angela's jaw dropped. "Oh my God. They found the Tin Man?"

"Doubtful, Angela," Brennan said firmly. "No conclusions without facts."

"You know, I adore every single neuron of that stubborn brain of yours," Angela said, grinning broadly.

"Uh, thanks, I guess." Brennan sounded just adorably clueless as she always did, and Angela fought the urge to laugh out loud at her.

"Can you take a step away from Booth?"

"Yes, of course. We aren't attached at the hip."

Angela sighed. And to think she had missed this part of their relationship. "I want to ask you a question you won't want to answer in front of Booth, sweetie."

"Oh." There was a slight shuffling. "Sorry, Booth," Angela could hear her say, "this should only delay us a moment." Another pause. "Yes, Angela?"

"How are things going? How's he doing?"

There was a silence. "That is... difficult to answer." Brennan sighed. "I hesitate to say for sure one way or the other, but..."

"But what?" Angela's razor-sharp instincts were intrigued by something in Brennan's tone. "What, sweetie?"

"I told him."

Angela felt sympathetic butterflies swirl around her stomach. "How did he react?"

"He uh... kissed me."

Angela's eyes widened. "And? How was it?"

"Booth has always been very... accomplished, in that particular area."

Angela grinned. "Sweetie, this is when you say that he knocked your socks off."

"On the contrary, my socks were firmly in place." Brennan coughed, and Angela wriggled happily in her seat.

"How are things now? Super awkward?"

"No." Angela could practically see Brennan's scrunched brow. "Are they supposed to be?"

"A little bit, yeah. Sweetie, you can't just shove something like that under the rug and leave it to deal with later, you know?"

"I would utilize our time in the car, but Agent Donaldson is with us," Brennan said. "We had to go retrieve him from the hotel. Booth attempted to leave him in Salina to question some of the senator's staff but he was quite insistent that his assignment was to stay with us until Dr. Sweets arrives."

"When does Sweets get there?"

"He comes in tomorrow evening," Brennan said. "He's meeting us at the airstrip in Hoxie at six o'cock."

"Good. I'm sure Booth is ready to see Parker."

"Yes. I find that I am very much looking forward to seeing him, as well. Thank you, Booth," Brennan said, away from the receiver. "Sorry, Ange. He brought me my coffee."

"Don't have time for girl talk, Bones," Angela could hear Booth say. She rolled her eyes.

"Tell Booth he doesn't get to manhandle you your first case back, Sweetie. Stay firm on that."

"He's attempting to be charming at the moment, but it's failing miserably," Brennan said, probably more for Booth's benefit than Angela's.

Angela couldn't fight the yawn that overtook her. "Sweetie, do you want to talk more tomorrow?"

"Yes, of course." Brennan seemed a little taken aback. "Are you feeling unwell? It's not like you to be tired so early."

_This is it. Tell her._ The voices inside of her head screamed at her, but Angela held firm to her original plan. "Just having trouble adjusting to the time difference, Bren. We'll probably do a video conference to catch up tomorrow after you've processed the crime scene, right?"

"Very likely."

Angela beamed. "Good. I'll see you then."

"Good-bye, Angela." Brennan clicked off the line and Angela reached out her hand, covering Jack's on the gear shift as he maneuvered their car through traffic and onto the highway that would take them away from the city and to the oasis he had called home for all of his childhood.


	11. Eleven: Follow the Yellow Brick Road

**Author's Note: **Thanks, once again, to Kat Morning and the fantastic Cathmarchr for all of their hard work whipping this chapter into shape. Thanks to all of the reviewers who continue to make my day by reviewing each chapter as they are released: it means more to me than I can say. I am taking some medication which is supposed to help with the joint pain that makes typing difficult, so every chapter should be on time - every Monday - from here on out.

**Chapter Eleven: Follow the Yellow Brick Road**

Four awkward hours in the car later, Booth, Brennan and Donaldson were pulling into the mile-long drive at the Rettinger's farm. The men had been chatting somewhat awkwardly about the upcoming professional football season and Brennan had used that time to start working on the paperwork she could complete in the car.

As soon as they pulled in the circle drive around the house, both Booth and Brennan jumped from the SUV, as though to escape the tension that was growing between them. Donaldson emerged a little more slowly, gathering a notebook and some equipment they would need at the scene.

"Agent Booth?" Sheriff Brainard ran up to him, hand extended. "Welcome back. I'm sorry to say we've got another gruesome one."

"That's what I hear," Booth said, his hands on his hips. "Who found the body?"

"Hal Rettinger. He's Hank's older brother. Well, one of them." Sheriff Brainard took off his hat and wiped his brow. It was nearly nine o'clock in the evening, but it was still muggy and hot and just now growing dark. "There are four Rettinger boys."

"Everybody in the family have alibis?"

The sheriff flipped open his notebook and glanced through it. "Helen, Hank, and Herb were all helping Hosiah move to Manhattan earlier today. Hebrew and Hal were in Hoxie buying feed, dog food, that kind of thing."

"Convenient." Booth sighed.

"Can you direct me to the remains?" Brennan asked, appearing behind Booth dressed in her jumpsuit and gum boots.

"Dr. Brennan!" Sheriff Brainard extended his hand. Brennan took it, slightly confused. Booth nearly rolled his eyes. It would probably take the sheriff a few more crime scenes before he realized that Bones would probably never remember who he was. "Of course, he... or she, I guess, is just in the barn over there. Our coroner and the KBI techs have done as much as they could. They've already got some samples ready to send off to your lab."

Brennan nodded. "That is acceptable. The remains, please?"

Sheriff Brainard shot Booth a look, but he shrugged his shoulders. "She's very focused."

"_She _is right here and would like to know where to find the victim." Brennan pushed past the sheriff and walked toward the barn, leaving the two men to jog slightly to catch up. The doors had been thrown wide open to the barn in an effort to air out the smell that permeated everything, but it couldn't completely dispel the odor. Booth fought the urge to gag by swallowing twice and following Brennan inside the space, which was lit unnaturally bright by the lights the KBI techs had brought in to illuminate every square inch of the barn. It was immediately obvious what the boy had seen – a grotesque sculpture of human remains.

"Sick fuck," Booth said under his breath, reaching for his note pad.

"What was that, Booth?" Brennan asked, pausing her approach.

"I just said whoever did this is a sick fuck."

Brennan tilted her head to the side and considered that for a moment. "Although we have nothing to indicate the state of the killer's mind, I can appreciate the colloquialism."

"He's sick, Bones, okay? Healthy people don't kill other people and put them in metal suits and stuff them in barns."

"Mmhmm," Brennan said, approaching the remains, careful not to disturb any of the markers the KBI techs had laid out. She began a visual examination and was silent for several moments before she turned to Booth "Pelvic bone is covered by the metal casing, but I can tell you from the shape of the parietal bone that we're probably looking at a male. From the state of the teeth, I'd say middle-age, but I can't be certain on that until we can do a more a thorough examination outside of this casing."

"How attached is he to that case, Bones?" Booth asked, stepping around the markers to stand next to her.

Brennan lifted a gloved hand and felt around inside the suit. "He appears to be welded inside of it, but I can see no evidence that the tissue is attached to the metal."

"He wasn't welded expertly, either," Booth said with disdain, careful not to touch the remains without gloves, but gesturing at one of the joints. "See that? That's a piss-poor welding job if I've ever seen one."

Donaldson startled them both with his presence when he spoke up. "Hey, Booth?"

Booth flinched but turned to face the junior agent. "Yeah. What's up?"

"Did you take a look at this marker?" Donaldson was crouched by the ground, gesturing at a pile of straw.

"Why? What do you see?" Booth left Brennan to her remains and went to join Donaldson.

"They marked it for this odd scraping on the floor, but if you look closely here..." Donaldson moved the straw with one gloved hand.

"Blood?" Booth raised his eyebrows.

"Yep. Could be the victim's, of course. Or an animal, or..."

"The killer."

"Very unlikely." Brennan said from the remains.

"Why, Dr. Brennan?"

"Because, just like our other victim, the killer moved the body here and displayed it." Booth said, rising to his feet and dusting off his pants. "If there was a struggle, it wouldn't have taken place here. Am I right, Bones?"

"Correct," Brennan said. "Although I don't know how you could possibly know that..."

"Just a hunch, Bones. Still, let's get the techs over here to scrape the blood and analyze it. Maybe we'll get lucky and it'll be a lead."

"Booth, we're going to have ship these remains as-is to the Jeffersonian for analysis. Hodgins will want to supervise the removal of particulates himself, and while I don't believe the metal is attached to the body itself, it's very possible that in the process of decomposition some of the tissue may have adhered to the casing."

"Okay. Donaldson, let the KBI techs know we're going to be shipping out the remains tonight," Booth said over his shoulder. "And find out where they're keeping the coffee. It's going to be a late night."

"Yes, sir."

"Booth?" Brennan straightened. "You're going to want to see this."

"What?" Booth followed the somewhat-treacherous path back to the remains.

Brennan wordlessly handed Booth a pair of gloves, which he slipped on. She pointed at the chest cavity. "I noticed a sort of hinge in the metal, so I pulled it open."

"Jesus," Booth breathed. "His chest has been..."

"Spread apart, yes." Brennan reached inside the remains. "And within the cavity, I found this." She handed Booth a slip of paper, which was rotting at the edges, but the ink was still legible.

"Follow the yellow brick road or Dorothy dies," Booth read. "Well, that's nice and cryptic."

"I'm sure Sweets will be able to do an in-depth analysis of it," Brennan said. "We should have him look at that when he arrives tomorrow."

"Absolutely." Booth handed the note back to her so she could bag it. At the reminder of his son's arrival, he bounced a little on his feet.

"Do you need to go interview the family?" Brennan asked, looking over at him.

"Is that your subtle way of telling me I'm in your way?"

"No," Brennan said, "but you are."

"All right, all right." He took the gloves off, discarded them in the appropriate container, and headed back towards the house, leaving Brennan and the KBI techs to handle the crime scene.

* * *

The house was just as nice as Booth recalled, just as scrupulously clean. He could smell the remnants of dinner and his stomach growled, reminding him that potato chips and a soda weren't really enough to be considered a meal. Hebrew, Hal and Helen were in the living room being questioned by a local cop.

Helen stood just as soon as she realized who he was. "Agent Booth!"

"Hey," he said easily, nodding to the policeman. "Can I speak to you for a moment?"

The cop rose and they stepped outside while he briefed Booth. "So far, all of the alibis check out. Receipts are all time-stamped, and they put the family out of town for most of the day."

"But the body could easily have been planted this morning before they left," Booth said. "We don't know for certain when the body was placed in the barn. We won't know that until our bug and slime guy takes a look."

"Right." The cop swallowed. "Anyway, uh. Do you want my notes?"

"Nah, just type all that up and have it in your report for me tonight." Booth straightened his shoulders and went back inside the house. "Hebrew, Hal, I'd like to speak to Helen alone, please."

Hebrew started and glanced at his wife. "Should we call a lawyer?"

"No, sweetie." She shook her head. "I'll be fine. Go ahead."

The two men departed and left Booth with Helen. He sat down on the couch, crossing one leg over the other and throwing his arm over the back. "Long day, huh?"

She laughed and rubbed the back of her neck. "You could say that."

"You've got two traumatized teenage boys now, Mrs. Rettinger." Booth said, smiling patiently at her. "So I think you'll agree with me that it's important that you tell me the truth."

"Yes. Yes, of course." Helen wiped her hands on her jeans. "Like I told the other policeman, though, I was out of town all day..."

"No. I want to go back to the other murder victim. Senator Williams. You claimed that you had never met him."

"I..." Helen swallowed. "It's complicated, Agent Booth."

"I've got time, Mrs. Rettinger." Booth smiled charmingly at her and clicked his pen open. "I've got all the time in the world."

"I never lied to you. I haven't met Senator Williams. I only know what my mother told me." Helen sighed and crossed her legs.

"What did your mother tell you?"

"You have to understand, by the end of her life my mother was very confused... very... she liked to make up stories. But for some reason, this one... Well."

Booth's tone was patient, but his facial expression was not. "Mrs. Rettinger."

"She told me that Senator Williams was my biological father."

Booth raised his eyebrows. "Now we're getting somewhere."

* * *

On the ride back, Booth tapped his fingers on the steering wheel as he told Bones what he'd learned. "She tells me that her mother and Senator Williams had a very brief romance when they were kids. He left soon after they discovered the pregnancy, and the man she considers to be her father, another farmer, by the way, came into her life when she was two. It didn't sound like her mother's marriage was happy, either."

"Well, if she was anticipating marrying a politician," Brennan said, shrugging her shoulders. "Some women might see that as a step down."

"So Helen killed her biological father, drove him all the way back to the family farm, stuffed him in a scarecrow outfit and nailed him to a pole?" Donaldson asked incredulously.

"It doesn't play that way to me, either," Booth said, shrugging his shoulders. "It just doesn't make sense. She's not the kind of woman who would want to destroy the family she's so carefully built."

"I agree."

Brennan wrinkled her brow as she watched the two men. "There's no evidence indicating that she was or was not the killer."

"We're just talking about vibes here, Bones. Listen. You don't go from having the kind of childhood she had – mom married to a man she doesn't love for a paycheck and a steady meal... to having the kind of life she's got now – four kids and a white picket fence, and want to throw that away. You just don't."

Brennan nodded. "That is logical."

Booth grinned. "Thanks, Bones."

"Listen, most deadbeat dads and cheating bastards don't change their tune," Donaldson said, leaning forward. "We didn't get a lot of time in Salina, but I'm thinking we should look more at the senator's past."

"It could be the Rettinger husband," Brennan said.

"Still doesn't make a lot of sense," Booth said. "If I were going to murder someone, I wouldn't hang them up for display on my own property."

"True."

"I think we're looking for someone that has it out for the Rettingers. It's very telling that both of the bodies have been found there." Booth pulled smoothly into the parking lot of the bed and breakfast they were staying at. "Donaldson, we're renting you a car, sending you back to Salina. Finish up your original assignment: I want to know everything there is to know about Senator Williams. Bones and I are going to poke around the Rettingers' lives."

"Yes, sir."

"I'll call the boys from the Kansas City office, get you assigned a temporary field partner." Booth opened the door of the SUV and jumped out.

Brennan stepped out, and accepted the field bag which Booth got for her. "Thank you."

"You look like you're about to fall over," Booth said quietly, cupping her bicep with a hand. "Are you okay?"

"I'm extremely tired, but it's nothing a few hours of sleep won't fix," she said, just as quietly. His head bent to touch hers and she got that stupid fluttery feeling in the pit of her stomach again. She recognized it as attraction, arousal... but something more. Something she'd only come to associate with Booth. She held her breath and hoped, like she hadn't hoped since her adolescence, that he would lean down and kiss her.

"Listen, we should... talk," Booth said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "About everything, you know?"

"Yes, I know." She drew in a steadying breath.

"Hey, you two, I'm going to bed," Donaldson called over to them. They broke apart guiltily and Booth coughed.

"Right. Well," he said, "we should go too. To bed, I mean. Separately, of course."

Brennan bit back the smile that bloomed across her face. "Yes, of course."

* * *

After they came inside, Booth set his bags down at the foot of the stairs, and gestured towards the kitchen. "Listen, Bones. I'm going to see if I can scare up a sandwich or something. You want to join me?"

She paused. "Yes, I think I would like that."

They walked close together, closer than they normally did, hands barely brushing, faint smiles tugging at the edge of their lips. Booth pushed open the swinging door to the kitchen and stopped dead in the doorway.

There, at the kitchen counter, legs swinging from a barstool that was still a little too tall for his feet to reach the ground, sat Parker Booth, taking long pulls from what appeared to be a milkshake. He chattered at Mrs. Hoake, who was bustling around the kitchen. Next to him sat Sweets, who appeared bemused by everything going on around him.

"Parker?" Booth said, hardly able to believe his eyes.

"Dad!" Parker whirled around and jumped off of the barstool, nearly tackling his dad with the force of his hug. "Hi!"

"Hey, buddy!" Booth dropped to a crouch and wrapped Parker in a hug, dipping his head so that no one could see the tears gathering in his eyes. "I wasn't expecting you today."

"Lance found us an earlier flight. He said it would be okay if we came a day early. Is that okay?" Parker pulled back, a worried look in his eyes.

"Yeah, of course." Booth grinned so wide it almost hurt, but he couldn't stop. "I'm so glad to see you."

"Me too, Dad." Parker pulled back. "Heya, Bones!"

"Hey Parker! Oh!" She wrapped the boy in a hug when he initiated it. "How have you been?"

"Good. Max showed us some of the bones that you sent back from Indonesia. It was really cool!"

"He did, huh?"

"Yeah. Then we got to do an excavation like you guys were doing! It was really hot, though."

"It was hot in Indonesia, too."

"Hey Sweets," Booth said, nodding his head. "Thanks for hauling Parker all the way out here."

"Oh, it was no trouble." Sweets got to his feet and extended his hand. "It's good to see you safe and sound, Agent Booth. Nice to see you, Dr. Brennan."

Brennan raised her hand in greeting. "Booth and I were going to try and find something to eat. We've been at a crime scene and haven't had a chance to have dinner."

"Oh!" Mrs. Hoake said, a wide smile on her face. "Why don't you two sit down and chat with your guests? I can whip up something delicious for everyone."

"Mrs. Hoake, you don't have to go out of your way for us like this..."

"Nonsense. This is more excitement than I've had in years. In a good way."

The little kitchen was soon noisy and crowded as Bones and Booth sat down and chatted long into the night with Sweets and Parker.

* * *

Booth could hardly sleep. He remembered feeling this way when Parker had been born – just overwhelmed by the _joy_ of having his son around. So when the knock came at his door, he hopped out of bed and strode over to open it.

"Parks! What are you doing up?"

He shrugged his head to the side and all Booth could see was his grandfather echoed there. "I couldn't sleep."

"Want to hang out in here for a while?"

The smile that spread across his son's face clued him in that Parker had really been wanting to spend more time with him, and Booth couldn't help the answering grin.

"What were you doing?"

"I couldn't sleep, buddy, so I was doing paperwork." Booth gestured at the bed.

"That's a lot of paperwork," Parker said. "I forgot how much paperwork you have to do."

"It's nothing that can't wait," Booth said. "Not while you're here."

Parker flung himself down on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. "When you come back, are you going to be back forever?"

"Yeah, buddy. I'm not going back to the Army." Booth lay down next to Parker, lacing his fingers across his chest.

"A year is a _really_ long time," Parker said. "You didn't get to coach my baseball team."

"Yeah, but I hear you did just fine without me." Booth said, nudging Parker's shoulder with a fist.

"It wasn't the same without you. No one else takes me for humongous milkshakes after. Mom tried, a couple of times, but that's our thing."

"Yeah, that's our thing." Booth reached over and ran his fingers through his son's curly mop of hair. "Well, now that I'm back, we'll have to go get humongous milkshakes again, okay?"

"Okay." Parker leaned into his father's touch. "I'm sorry I made you go, Dad."

"What? No. Buddy, no." Booth shook his head. "Parker, I'm an adult. I made the decision to go all by myself."

"I told you that you should go, though."

Booth sighed. "Yeah, buddy, you did. But you told me I should go for all the reasons I was telling myself that I should go."

"Did you save a lot of lives?"

Booth felt ice-cold water run through his veins and he swallowed hard against the lump that rose in his throat. When he'd left, Parker had been almost nine, not quite ready to talk about the harsh realities of war. Was ten better? He'd certainly saved lives, but –

_Walking down a dusty path in full gear. _

_Pop. Pop. Pop. _

_Less like pops than mini explosions, tearing apart flesh._

_Screaming. _

_Run! Cover! Insurgents, dammit..._

"Dad?"

Booth blinked and shook his head. "Yeah, Parker. I saved some lives."

Parker nodded his head. "I'm glad, Dad."

"Me too, buddy."

There was a quiet knock at the door, and Bones stuck her head in. "Oh, Parker. I didn't know you were going to be staying in here."

"It's okay, Bones. I was just hangin' with my dad."

A soft smile crept across her face, and Booth was reminded, once more, of where he was. What he was doing. The muggy heat of Kansas was nothing like the dry heat of the desert where he'd been. The soft whir above him was from a ceiling fan. The bed beneath him was free of mice, which had been everywhere in Afghanistan.

"I had a question, but I don't want to interrupt."

"If you can't sleep, you can join us," Parker said, patting the bed next to him. "You're not interrupting nothing, Bones."

"Anything, Parker," Booth corrected, closing his eyes.

"I'm glad you're back too, Bones. I had to do my science project all by myself. Well, Max helped, but..."

Parker was off again. Brennan looked over his head at Booth, who grinned at her, hoping his flashback earlier didn't show in his eyes. She reached out her hand and took his, squeezing it gently. Parker scrunched in close to his Dad, and Brennan lay on the other side of him, the three of them staring up at the ceiling.

It should have been hot. It should have been downright smothering, actually, but somehow, it just felt right. Despite the voices shouting in his head not to get used to this, not to think for one second that he deserved any of this, Booth could do nothing but lay back and revel in the feeling of family. A real family – a family he'd built for himself, from the ground up.

Maybe someday, he allowed himself to think, it would be him and Bones in the same bed every night. Maybe someday Parker would be down the hall more than once or twice a month. Maybe someday, when he'd atoned for all of his sins, he could be this happy every day.


	12. Twelve: Auntie Em

**Author's Note: **For those that like to play "spot the literary reference", there's a fairly obvious one in here. Thanks to Kat Morning and Cathmarchr for the fantastic beta work on this. I'm sorry that I'm late with this chapter again, but I promise that soon enough we'll be back on our regular Monday-posting schedule. This chapter is extra long to make up for the long wait!

**Chapter Twelve: Auntie Em **

Brennan's eyes slowly opened, and for a few precious moments she didn't realize where she was. Slowly, it came back to her: the smell of little boy – grass and sweat and, oddly enough, rubber - mixed with the smell that was quintessentially Booth. Soap – sharp and clean and masculine, gunpowder and earth; the presence of two bodies on the same queen-size bed as her. Unbidden, her heart started to race in her chest, a kind of irrational panic at the other feeling settling in her breast: comfort. Or was that contentment? Hope? She couldn't find the exact word for it, but there was an inherent sense of rightness in breathing the same air as Booth first in the morning, and something innocent and pure about the half-snores wheezing from Parker's nose.

It was a fantasy to call them a family. Certainly Parker still had a mother and a step-father and Booth and she weren't really... anything, yet. But for a moment, a sweet blessed moment, she allowed herself to float on the pleasure of that dream. She allowed herself to think that this was just a moment – not pivotal, not monumental, because there would be other mornings just like it: other mornings when Booth would roll over and smile that half-smile at her and Parker would bound into their room demanding to be entertained. She imagined that she had years of mornings just like this ahead of her.

Until Parker's too-Boothy eyes opened with a pop and he beamed at her.

"Hey Bones," Parker whispered. "Good morning."

"Good morning, Parker." Brennan laughed a little, indicating the tangle of sheets and limbs they found themselves in that morning. "Did you sleep well?"

"Yeah." He wrinkled his nose – an expression which must have come from Rebecca. "Guess I fell asleep while you guys were talking about the half-ape people."

"Interspecies humanoids," Brennan corrected with a gentle smile.

"Right, them." Parker sat up and scooted down to the end of the bed, jumping from the mattress to the floor and wriggling his toes. "At least I didn't sleep in my shoes. Do you think Mrs. Hoake has food in the kitchen?"

"There is breakfast," Brennan acknowledged. "She made us pancakes and bacon yesterday."

"Awesome, Bones! Tell Dad good morning for me, okay? I'm gonna go shower and stuff."

Brennan nodded, and smiled as he slammed the door when he left. A feeling like she should leave – like she should really get up and abandon the fantasy – swept over her. She gripped the duvet in an effort to stay. She had told Booth she was willing to try. Always before, when she'd woken up next to a man, it had been a prelude or an epilogue to sex. This was different. The sexual urge was undeniably there, inflamed by the memory of their unrestrained kiss at the hotel the day before, but there was also ... comfort. Simple reassurance in the fact that he was here and alive. It made her fingers nearly crackle with electricity when she thought of rolling over to cup his face with her hand.

She fought the impulse to touch but scooted closer to him, until she was inches away from his face, her legs close to his, only a slight valley of mattress between them. Rarely had she gotten the chance to study Booth like this. She had, of course, seen him when he was ill or injured and resting. She recalled him, too-still and too-cold on the bed he'd been laid on while in a coma. She remembered the labored breathing and hissing pain that had been evident even in sleep after he'd been blown up. This, though? When it was just Booth, just resting... this was rare and should be savored.

She watched through half-lidded eyes as the morning sun pierced the blinds and moved the shadows away from his face, the wrinkles around his eyes and his mouth, the gray hairs just at the temples. He was aging, her partner. No more than should be expected, considering what he'd been through: the years of physical labor, periods of malnutrition, the abuse in his early life.

Here was a man who had carved himself out of the stone of his life, Brennan thought, her early morning brain indulging in the kind of prose she would use to describe Booth if she had been writing one of her novels about him. His bone structure would never been unpleasant: it was highly symmetrical and so physiologically male that it stirred the part of her brain hardwired to appreciate these things. Thanks to anthropology, she could understand why he was so appealing to her on a purely physical level. It also gave her some insight as to why he was so desirable as a mate, as the father of the child she had once asked him to give her. Booth was a demonstrably steady provider (although that hardly mattered with her financial assets). Booth had never abandoned his other child – had fought, actually, in order to be _allowed_ to be around his son. He had a kind heart, and gentle hands. Yet he could, and would, kill. He walked a line Brennan was sure he thought he kept hidden from her, but he was also hyper-aware of the damage his body could inflict on those smaller and weaker than himself.

By all counts, Booth was a good man. The best kind of man. She'd known that. _That_ hadn't been the revelation that had shaken her, had made her realize that she was missing something in her relationship with him.

It had been Fran and Maxine, two women from the dig at Maluku, who had changed her mind.

She could easily call them up in her mind now – they were in their mid-sixties, but scorned tracksuits and elastic-waisted pants for hiking boots and oversized hats, spending their retirement money traveling around the world doing the things they'd long dreamed of doing, including working archaeological digs. Fran had let her hair go entirely grey, while Maxine kept just a touch of color.

They were off-color, ridiculous, and _happy_. Polar opposites, really: Fran was a Buddhist and Maxine preferred not to ascribe to any philosophy at all. Fran seemed content to let life make decisions for her; Maxine was fond of lists and timetables. Yet – they'd been together since their late twenties.

Over time, she'd begun to see a faint echo of herself and Booth in them: a friendship that had grown into something more. She'd mentioned that to them, once.

"Who's Booth?" Fran had asked, her eyes lighting with interest. She loved gossip.

"My partner. My work partner," Brennan felt she had to clarify. "I'm a consultant for the FBI, at home."

"And we remind you of... you two?"

"Well, yes. Except for sexual intercourse, Booth and I have a relationship very similar to yours."

Maxine had laughed. "If you've got a relationship anything like ours, then that's the person you _should_ be sleeping with."

"Why?" Brennan's too-serious eyes must have clued them in that her guile in this situation was definitely not an act. "To act on our attraction could mean an end to our FBI partnership."

"One: really good sex. Two: it might put a smile on that gorgeous face of yours," Fran said, taking Maxine's hand. "And three? Cause life's too short to spend most of it wondering 'what if'."

And if they could see her now, they would have been all rowdy encouragement and dirty jokes, full of suggestions of what to do with the man whose bed she was (currently) sharing.

"What are you staring at him for, lass?" Fran would have asked, her voice colored by a lilting Irish accent. "Take a good grip of him and show him you mean business."

"Or you could start gentle with the lad," Maxine would have offered in soothing counter-point. "Just a few licks and nibbles to start his day off right."

"And yours," Fran would have teased.

"Goes without saying." And then a quick kiss – something the two women did often. Matter-of-fact. Steady. Unconsciously.

The faint stirring of her hair around her ear made her blink herself to full awareness. There was Booth's face, surprise in his eyes, his fingers playing with the curl he'd captured. "Good morning, Bones. Taking a field trip?"

"Excuse me?"

"You were a million miles away. I wasn't sure if you were sleeping with your eyes open or if you were..."

"Daydreaming." Brennan coughed and blushed, unwilling to move but still hyper-aware of the fact that they were awake. They were close. They were partially clothed – Booth still had his dress pants on, but he'd stripped down to his undershirt, no belt and no socks. They were in a bed. In all other situations, this combination of factors would have led to... well, sex. Any other man, and she would have growled something about putting his hands on her, to wake her up properly. Any other man and she would have rolled him over and straddled his waist, playful and dominant. Any other man but this one. Which was sort of hell, because that's precisely what she _wanted_ to do. A wave of want washed over her.

She closed her eyes and swallowed.

"Why were you daydreaming when you could be nightdreaming?"

"Nightdreaming isn't a word, Booth."

"Sure it is. If we have a special word for dreaming during the day, we ought to have one for when you dream at night."

"Isn't that just called 'dreaming', Booth?"

"In some unsophisticated circles," Booth teased, his fingers still in her hair. "But here at Chez Booth, we try to be as specific as possible."

"Oh?" She raised her eyebrows.

His fingers dropped from her hair and Brennan nearly growled in frustration, but he found her hand and interlocked his fingers in hers before he brought their joined hands up to his mouth for a gentle kiss. "Yes. I didn't expect to find you here this morning."

"I didn't expect to find me here, either."

"I just figured you'd... pick up and run. We'd go back to just... doing things the old way."

Brennan's eyebrows rose in confusion. "Is that how you wish I would have responded? I apologize, Booth. I'll lea..."

He chuckled. "Jesus, Bones. Slow the fuck down, okay?" She looked at him with surprise. "A year of soldiers and sailors. My mouth's gotten a bit... filthy. I'm sorry."

"I am not your mother." Brennan shrugged and sat up. "I'll see you, Booth."

"No, wait!" He caught her wrist in a loose grip, one finger touching the pad of his thumb, lightly encircling her arm. She could easily have broken out of his loose hold, but she stilled. "Wait, just a second, Bones. I'm a good kind of surprised, okay? I'm just... hell. I just don't know what to do with this."

"I'm uncertain of how to proceed as well," Brennan confessed quietly. "I... the old conventions by which I have conducted my previous relationships don't seem to be applicable under these conditions."

"Is that a squinty way to say you're ass over tea kettle, Bones?"

"I have no idea what that means."

"Okay." Booth's hand slid up her arm, sending goosebumps alight in its path and stirring up the desires she was already struggling to clamp. "Just... lay here a second with me, okay Bones?" She could see him swallowing, obviously trying to control himself, so she laid back down, and curled up to her former not-quite-touching position. "So, basically, neither one of us knows what we're doing right now."

"That seems a valid conclusion."

"Well, that's good. Means we're in the same place, emotionally."

"Metaphorically speaking, yes." Since he had taken the liberty with her, she reached out and gently touched his face.

"Well, good. That's good." Booth closed his eyes and leaned into her touch, then slowly drew her closer to him, so that the outline of his body was flush with hers. Including some very impressive evidence of what her presence in his bed was doing to him. She writhed a little, struggling to find a more comfortable way to alleviate some of the desire between her legs.

"Booth?"

"Yeah?"

"I'd very much like to kiss you. Is that okay?"

His eyes sparkled dangerously. "I warn you, I haven't brushed my tee-" Brennan joined their mouths. There was passion there, and curiosity. She unconsciously and consciously logged the taste of Booth first thing in the morning and decided that she found it pleasant, a taste to which she could definitely get used. Booth never could stand for her to be in the driver's seat long, though, and it appeared that it might be that way for sexual activities, because he rolled her over onto her back, slid his knee between her thighs and _pressed_ there, just-so, and sparks flew across her body at the hint of his touch on her sex. His head bent to his task again, his mouth persuasive and delicious, his hands cupping her breasts and brushing the nipples with his thumbs while she arched and spread her legs even further. She was about to beg him to forget that they were supposed to be working and just fuck her already when –

A solid tapping at the door interrupted them, and they broke apart reluctantly. "Yeah?" Booth called, his mouth hovering over Brennan's. "What do you want?"

"Mrs. Hoake says to tell you and Bones that breakfast is soon." Parker opened the door. "Jeez, Dad. _Kissing_ Bones?"

"What? I'm allowed."

"Blech." Parker shook his head and closed the door.

A weird nervous energy fluttered in Brennan's stomach, soothed away a little by the even pressure of Booth framing her face with his hands. He kissed her hard, quickly. "I suppose we should get back to the real world, yeah?" he asked reluctantly.

"Yeah. We have a murderer to catch."

"We have crappy timing," Booth said, shaking his head as he forced himself out of the bed. "Someday, Bones, I'll have you all to myself. No time limit. Just all the kissing I want."

"Kissing eventually leads to intercourse in many cases," Brennan said, unable to stop the hope that crept into her voice as she stood, leaving the bed behind.

"In ours? Kissing _definitely_ leads to sex." He wrapped his arms around her from behind and kissing her neck. "Making love. Fucking. Whatever. Just so you know, Bones, once this case is done, you and me, we're going to be naked between the sheets somewhere for at least a year and a half."

She relaxed against him, but smirked as she rotated her hips in a teasing fashion. "That would be extremely uncomfortable."

"So you say now." Booth waggled his eyebrows as he released her and headed off to the shower. Brennan made her way back to her own room with a spinning head. Somehow, all of her insecurities about the future seemed deliciously distant and fuzzy.

* * *

Mrs. Hoake was showing Parker how to flip her blueberry pancakes, and Sweets was seated at the kitchen table already dressed and pressed when Booth came down the stairs. Mrs. Hoake looked up from the griddle with an exasperated sigh when she saw him.

"I don't know what they give you boys at the FBI that you can stand to wear a full suit in this kind of heat." She shook her head. "It's going to be a hundred and seven in the shade today. You'll both roast."

"We've got to do another formal interview with the people who found the body today," Booth said, shrugging his shoulders. "Otherwise I'd be dressed a lot differently, believe me. Sweets, what are you doing?"

Sweets looked up from the file folder he was flipping through. "Agent Donaldson gave me his preliminary findings from the crime scene."

"And you're reading them at breakfast? In front of my kid?"

"Jeez, Dad. It's not like Lance showed me the pictures." Parker smoothly stepped in. "I know the rules. I checked for armpit hair this morning."

"Any luck?" Sweets asked, a smile on his face.

"Not yet." Parker shrugged his shoulders. "I figure it has to come any day now."

"Oh yeah? What makes you think that?" Booth asked, but he was distracted from hearing Parker's answer because Brennan came down the stairs. A part of him envied that she could get away with the light and pretty floral-skirt and sleeveless top. He'd be sweating away like a farm animal and she'd at least have clothes that let her breathe.

"Good morning, everyone."

"Good morning, Dr. Brennan!" Sweets beamed at her. "How are you this morning?"

It was all Booth could do to keep from cuffing the psychologist in the back of the head. He felt a little like Horton, begging everyone around him not to breathe on the speck that had become his whole world, lest it blow away from him. The psychologist probably meant well, but he did have that freaky-mojo-thing where he could just _tell_ when something had happened, and Sweets didn't have the best track record of knowing when to keep his mouth shut when it came to Brennan.

She shot Booth a look, and he realized he must have been glaring rather obviously. He coughed and turned his attention to pilfering some of the bacon from a paper-towel covered plate.

"I'm well. Thank you, Dr. Sweets," Brennan said smoothly. "Yourself?"

"Raging hay fever." Sweets said it brightly, but it explained the slight redness in the whites of the young doctor's eyes and the congestion in his tone. Booth struggled not to feel a little gleeful at that.

"Do you need to take something, dear?" Mrs. Hoake asked gently.

"No thanks. I'll take a pill with breakfast." Sweets waved his hand. "Until then, a little suffering's good for the soul."

Booth rolled his eyes and sat down at the table. "Hey Parks, six of those are for me, right?"

Brennan laughed, but Parker nodded. "Six! Once, he ate a whole dozen pancakes. It was _awesome._"

Brennan raised her eyebrows. "Really?"

"I'm a growing boy, Bones." Booth patted his stomach.

"There's another expression for that, you know," Mrs. Hoake said, teasingly.

"What's that?" Sweets asked.

"A bottomless pit."

* * *

At nine-thirty, east coast time, the squints gathered round the large monitor on the platform and waited patiently for Doctor Brennan's video conference call. Just a few minutes later, the familiar beeping sound signaled everyone that the call was about to begin.

Brennan's face appeared in a small window to one side, and everyone except Angela jumped right in.

"Morning, Dr. B!"

"Good morning, Dr. Brennan!"

"Dr. Brennan! Welcome back!"

Another face appeared next to her, and Booth got the same kind of treatment. He waved a hand, cutting off the flood of greetings. "So. What've you got?"

"We've been looking over the photos of your latest victim," Cam said, slipping into her role as the leader easily. "Of course, we can't be certain of anything until we have the actual remains, but we can see no obvious signs of fatal trauma."

"So an overdose like the last victim?" Sweets stuck his head in the monitor over Booth's shoulder.

Cam raised her eyebrows. "Hello there, Doctor Sweets."

He peeked into the frame, waving waved sheepishly. "Morning, Doctor Saroyan."

"Go finish your breakfast, Sweets," Booth said, ushering him away and rolling his eyes. "Overdose, Camille?"

"Can't say for certain until we have lab results, but I've given the go-ahead to the lab in Topeka to run some tests as soon as they get their samples. Of course, we'll confirm the results. When I spoke to Doctor Georges there last night, they were starting the tox screen. We'll know in a couple of hours if it's anything like the cocktail of drugs our killer gave the first victim."

"We have an explanation for the loss of bone mass in our first victim," Wendell said, stepping forward. "It's actually a form of secondary osteoporosis."

"A man of his age – under seventy – is unlikely to have osteoporosis of any kind," Brennan observed.

"Very true. Of course, the condition could have been aggravated by lifestyle choices: smoking, alcoholism. But we were able to detect large amounts of glucocorticoid in his system."

"What does that mean?" Booth asked. "English, folks."

"It means he had an autoimmune disorder," Brennan said flatly. "Or allergies, asthma... Glucocorticoid medications are used to suppress the autoimmune system so that the body won't destroy itself while it tries to ward off infection."

"Hm," Booth said, and scribbled something in his notebook.

"I have something, Agent Booth," Donaldson said, bursting through the kitchen door. Booth pointed a finger at the video camera.

"On a call here, Agent Donaldson."

"Oh. I can see that now." Donaldson waved. "Hi, everyone."

"Squints, this is Agent Donaldson. Agent Donaldson, these are the squints: Jack Hodgins, our bug, slime and particulate guy; Dr. Saroyan, a forensic pathologist; Dr. Clark Edison, a forensic anthropologist; Angela Montenegro-Hodgins, a forensic artist; and Mr. Wendell Bray, a graduate assistant in forensic anthropology."

Greetings erupted and he waved in return, shaking his head. "I'm never going to remember all of that, but I did some digging into Helen Rettinger's mother's life."

"Oh?"

"Turns out Williams isn't the only high-powered man she was sleeping with at the time of Helen's conception." Donaldson pushed the paper across the table and Booth scanned it, whistling appropriately. "A district attorney? Federal judge... sheriff. County coroner, that one's a bit odd..."

"Excuse me," Brennan folded her arms over her chest. "Just because society has shunted death off to the side and..."

"Bones, sorry." Booth waved a hand and focused on Donaldson. "Did you do any looking into the dead senator's wife?"

"Yeah. She was in the hospital at the time of Helen Rettinger's conception, sir. The, uh... mental hospital."

Booth was actually taken aback. "What for? She doesn't strike me as the type."

"Well, I mean, you have to understand, we know a lot more now than we used to about these kinds of things, but... And, of course, Dr. Sweets will have to verify, but..."

"Spit it up, please," Brennan said.

"Out, Bones. You mean 'spit it out'."

"Whatever."

"These days? We'd probably call it postpartum depression. Case files say that she was despondent for a few days after her child was born, then the baby girl died in her crib a week after birth."

"How'd she end up in the mental hospital?"

"She tried to slit her own wrists. With a kitchen knife."

"Okay." Booth nodded. "Here's what we do. We keep looking into Helen's mother's life. We keep looking into the wife. I'll get a warrant for a DNA sample from Helen Rettinger, we'll see if her story about her paternity checks out. We keep working the Rettinger angle because that's all we've got until we get the identity of the second victim."

"Speaking of the second victim." Hodgins spoke up, stepping forward. "I can tell you that your friend is a movie enthusiast. Not so much with the books."

"What the hell?"

"_The Wizard of Oz._ He likes the movie. Not so much the book."

"Where'd you get that?"

"Because in the book, the Tin Woodsman is made of tin. Pure tin." Hodgins pulled up an illustration of the Tin Woodsman juxtaposed with the Tin Man from the movie. "In the MGM classic movie and the stage plays, the Tin Man has to carry an oil can. Why? Because he rusts when he gets wet. Tin doesn't rust. Iron does. The accepted theory being that the Tin Man in the movie is actually iron covered in tin."

"Okay. And?"

"Your second victim? Joints are rusted like hell. No way that's a pure-tin suit. I'll have to run some tests, I'll be able to give you more specific information."

"And that's proof that the killer liked the book better than the movie?" Booth asked. Hodgins looked smug. "Or it's proof that the killer could only put his hands on a suit that happened to rust."

Hodgins seemed puzzled. "Oh, yeah. I guess there is that interpretation, too."

Booth rolled his eyes. "Anything else from anyone?"

Clark and Wendell took a few minutes with Doctor Brennan, cataloging some minor fractures that had been caused by falls since the onset of osteoporosis, putting them on a timeline.

Once the meeting was wrapping up, Angela stood up. "Bren, sweetie? Can I talk to you for a few minutes?"

Brennan's eyes focused on her friend, really focused, for the first time since she had gotten back to the States. Her very quick, very rational brain came to a very swift conclusion.

"You are pregnant," Brennan said, evenly.

"Uh, yes." Angela spread her arms wide. "Surprise! You're going to be an honorary aunt."

Booth gave a cheer, and Brennan could feel him squeeze her shoulders as she sat down in a chair. "Congratulations, Angela," Brennan said. "You have always wanted children."

"Thanks, sweetie." Angela beamed. "I'm huge, huh?"

"It's all relative," Brennan said, a faint smile on her lips. "How far along are you?"

"Uh, five months, almost."

"Hm. Then you are slightly larger than average," Brennan acknowledged. "Are you carrying multiples?"

A slow smile broke across Angela's face, and Hodgins' shout of laughter could be heard in the background. "You owe me twenty bucks, Ange!"

"We bet that you would be able to tell it was twins. Even from half a country away."

Brennan nodded. She couldn't but feel as though she were floundering a bit.

"Boys or girls or mixed set?" Booth asked over her shoulder. The crazy rocking sensation around her steadied a bit.

"Boy and a girl," Hodgins practically crowed.

Angela rolled her eyes. "He acts like he's personally responsible. Like he's going to get a merit badge or something."

Brennan laughed. "Biologically, it is your achievement."

"I keep _telling_ him that." The two women met eyes, and something like understanding passed between them. "I miss you, sweetie."

"I miss you, too. I wish I were there."

"Me too." Angela laid her hand on her belly, an unconscious gesture Brennan had observed many mothers-to-be used. "So solve this one quick, yeah? And scurry back."

"Booth and I are doing our best."

"Give Parker our love," Angela said, reaching forward. "I'll talk to you this evening, okay?"

"Yes." Brennan smiled at her. "Congratulations, Ange. I'm so, so happy for you."

The conference window snapped closed, and Brennan leaned back in her seat.

"You okay, Bones?"

"Yeah, Booth. I'm fine." At some point Donaldson must have left, because there was no one there but her and Booth. Gently, he drew her into his arms. "I wish I were a pyramid."

"What?"

"You said they're better at change than I am. The world seems very... unsteady."

"I know what you mean." Booth squeezed her then released her.

"Ange looks happy, doesn't she?"

"Yes, yes she does."

Brennan rubbed her arms and avoided his gaze. "We were happy in my book."

Booth raised his eyebrows. Where had that come from? "Yes, we were."

"We were going to have a baby."

He spoke carefully. "Yes, we were."

"I..." Brennan shook her head. "Never mind."

"No, Bones. Come on. What is it?"

"I do not like being jealous. I believe that's what I'm feeling right now." Brennan crossed her arms over her hands. It was irrational, but it didn't seem _fair_ that Hodgins and Angela had gone from miserable and apart to together, happy and relaxed so very _quickly_. And – a child. Children. Something she had wanted, once upon a time. Something she'd asked Booth for – something delayed by the cruelty of the universe. Part of her, that part of her that had never quite grown out of being fifteen – that part of her that Sweets had told her once was permanently stalled in adolescence – stomped her foot and thought that it should have been her.

"No one likes feeling jealous. Ange and Hodgins, they've really got their lives figured out, huh?"

Brennan tucked her head to his shoulder. "It appears so."

"All of this stuff, Bones? All of this stuff, we'll figure it out." His large hands started to rub her back and Brennan felt another twinge of arousal start. "We're the best at being us... and we're only gonna get better now that there's more, okay? Everything else will just... we'll figure it out."

"Do you promise?" Brennan felt uncomfortably fifteen again, holding on to her parents with both hands in an alternate reality when she'd known they were never, ever coming back for her.

"Yeah, Bones, I promise." Then they were kissing - their mouths met meeting again and again with escalating desperation, tongues darting in and out, punctuation marks to the sentences they were composing together. She was the one to break the kiss, insisting quietly: "Work now, Booth. We have to work."

"Yeah, you're right, Bones." He sighed, and she thought she heard him mutter, incomprehensibly: "And all the Whos down in Whoville got knocked on their asses."


	13. Thirteen: The House Began to Pitch

**Author's Note: **Thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter! This one isn't as long, but there's a big chapter coming up. I hope you enjoy this one!

**Chapter Thirteen: The House Began to Pitch**

Sweets studied the photographs of the crime scene in front of him with great interest, making notations on his pad of paper about the placement of the body, the care that was taken to make sure the corpse invoked the right cultural image.

"Lance?" Parker's curious voice interrupted his stream of thought, and he lifted his head.

"Yeah, buddy?"

"What are you doing?"

Sweets tapped his pen against the file folder. "I'm looking at details from the crime scene to see what I can tell your dad and Dr. Brennan about the murderer."

"Like what kind of stuff?"

"Uh, well -" Sweets coughed. "Dr. Brennan, she looks at all the physical evidence, right?"

"She can look at an elbow and tell you whether someone's played football or not. It's really cool," Parker said enthusiastically. "Not as cool as Dr. Hodgins, though. He looks at bugs all day. That's the coolest."

"Right. Well, that's all physical stuff. I tell your dad and Dr. Brennan stuff about what the murderer is thinking, help them decide what type of person to look for in a suspect."

Parker wrinkled his nose. "How do you figure that out?"

"Statistics, sometimes. Sometimes I can tell a lot about a person based on the murder weapon they choose to use, or how they arrange or don't arrange their victims."

"That's cool."

Sweets smiled. "Yeah, most of the time it's pretty cool."

"I hope you've explained to Parker the weaknesses and guesswork inherent in your field, Dr. Sweets," Dr. Brennan said, as she and Booth emerged from the room off the kitchen where they'd wrapped up the conference call with D.C.

"I had hoped that Parker could at least get into adolescence before I completely biased him against a legitimate scientific field of study, Dr. Brennan."

Dr. Brennan raised an eyebrow at him, but said nothing further. Sweets fought the urge to do a victory dance. His resolution not to let Booth and Brennan intimidate him any longer was well on its way to being fulfilled.

Booth's phone chirped and he flipped it open. "Booth." There was a pause. "Oh? That's good news. Yeah. Just fax that list on over to Dr. Saroyan at the Jeffersonian. She'll know what to do with it." Another pause. "Yeah. Thanks, sheriff. Great. Good. See ya soon." He flipped the phone close.

"That was Sheriff Brainy?" Brennan asked, absent-mindedly reaching for one of the strawberries in a large bowl on the kitchen table.

"Sheriff Brainard, Bones. He had a list of possible victims for us. Missing persons in the age range you gave us, all in that timeframe, as well. He already knew to send it to your phone and he's passing it on to Cam, as well."

"Good," Brennan said firmly. "So, in the meantime we focus our investigation on the first murder victim?"

"Yes. Donaldson's leaving for Salina in a few minutes. He's going to do a follow-up there with the widow Williams, see what he can't dig up from staffers there. You and I are going to poke around this connection Helen Rettinger has to Senator Williams. Do some asking around town."

"Why?" Brennan wrinkled her brow. "Helen Rettinger has to be at least forty-five years old, Booth. Do you really think people are going to remember anything about the circumstances of her birth?"

Mrs. Hoake entered the kitchen from the back door and laid down a bucket of potatoes near the kitchen sink. Wiping her forehead with a handkerchief, she studied the FBI personnel and little boy currently occupying her home.

"Helen Rettinger?" She asked, raising her eyebrows. "Are you talking about how she was born on the wrong side of the sheets?"

"You know something about that?" Booth asked, smirking a little at Brennan.

"Well, yeah. Before she was married she was a Trent. And everybody knows about Sylvia Trent – that would be Helen's mother. Well, everyone from around here, anyway. Poor woman." Mrs. Hoake flipped the faucet on with one hand and started to scrub the dirt off of her hand with lemon-scented dishwashing soap.

"Excuse us a minute," Booth said, holding up a finger. "Parker, why don't you go find some cartoons in the other room, okay?"

"I can't stay?"

Booth shook his head. "Sorry, buddy. Not right now, okay?"

Parker huffed, and sighed in a way that was so perfectly Rebecca it took Booth's breath away. "This is lame, Dad."

"Yeah. We're going to do something fun tonight, though."

"Okay." Parker was used to being an FBI kid, Booth reminded himself, and he had a murder to solve. Just because he wanted to spend every waking moment with his son didn't mean that he was going to be allowed that privilege any time soon. As soon as the door to the living room shut, Booth turned his attention to Mrs. Hoake. "What can you tell me about Sylvia Trent?"

"Well, you know. She went to school just down the road here, and I guess... oh... about forty years or so, she met that Williams boy at a conference in Manhattan. Like... boys state, girls state... something like that. That was a little after my time, but Ethan's youngest sister went to school with Sylvia. It was the gossip of the day – this whirlwind romance between the married lawyer and the young high school girl. Sylvia couldn't have been more than... oh, just out of high school. Of course, Williams wasn't much older, but word was his wife was having troubles. Unhappy times at home, that kind of thing." Mrs. Hoake lifted the bucket of potatoes and set it on the counter. "Folks got married younger then. I think it's probably better that people wait nowadays."

"Anthropologically speaking, longer life expectancies ease the imperative to breed in socially accepted sexual situations, and therefore..."

"Whoa. Enough." Booth raised his hand. "Mrs. Hoake, are you aware of the type of problems Mrs. Williams was having?"

"That was forty years ago, of course. Things like that weren't much talked about, but I seem to remember her losing a baby."

"So. Sylvia Trent has an affair with a married Kent Williams before he was a senator, and comes back pregnant?" Booth raised his eyebrows.

"Well, they said at the time that Helen was that Bobby Reuger's daughter." Helen shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know that many people believed that, but you know. He was taking care of Sylvia, taking care of Helen. There was no reason for anyone to object. Do you all think she might have had something to do with Senator Williams' death?"

"We can't comment on an open investigation," Booth said, snapping his notebook closed. "I'm sorry."

"No, it's completely okay!" Mrs. Hoake laughed. "I guess some things on TV _are_ right, huh?"

Agent Donaldson stepped into the kitchen, his bag packed and in his hand. "Agent Booth? Just checking in before I leave."

"Good. Hey, listen. Be careful out there, okay? Watch your back. They're giving you someone out of the KC office named Quentin. Supposed to be green, so..."

"I'll keep my eyes pealed and my head on straight, sir."

Booth nodded. "Good. You'll give me a call this evening and brief me on what you've learned?"

"Absolutely, sir." He turned and left the room with almost-military precision.

Sweets raised his eyebrows. "Fascinating."

Booth turned, exasperated. "What now, Sweets?"

"How fast you can put the fear of God into people. It's really quite something, Sarge."

Booth shook his head. "Don't call me that. And it's not fascinating, okay? People naturally want to do a good job."

"Right." Sweets dropped his eyes to the file in front of him, and Mrs. Hoake turned back to her potatoes.

"What do you say we get out of here, Bones? Take care of what we need to in town, huh?"

"That would be acceptable."

"Sweets, you want to tag along, see if you can't help us ferret out folks that might know more than they're initially willing to admit?"

"Really?" Sweets perked up at the invitation. "You mean, like, in the field?"

"Well, sure. I figure we've got you housebroken now..."

"You know what? You can't bring me down now. Yes, I would like to join you, Agent Booth." Sweets jumped to his feet and started throwing his files into his bag.

"Hey, Parks!" Booth opened the door to the living room, gesturing for Parker to join them in the kitchen. "Bones and I have to go do some work in town – ask some questions, that kind of thing. There's not much to do in town – do you want to hang out here, watch TV? Sweets is going to come with us."

Parker shrugged his shoulders. "What is there to do out here?"

"I've got some things to do out in the garden, if you don't mind digging in the dirt, Parker," Mrs. Hoake suggested. "Plus I think I've got a few bikes in the back shed... you could easily bike the length and breadth of town."

"That might be cool," Parker hedged.

"All right." Booth rubbed his hands together. "You ready to rock and roll, Bones?"

"I am ready to leave, yes." With a hug for Parker from Bones and Booth, they left Parker and Mrs. Hoake in the kitchen and braved the Kansas heat.

* * *

It was nearly noon before the rushed remains of the tin man body made it to the Jeffersonian. A small group gathered around the table where Wendell was laying out the remains. Cam and Angela discussed something in low voices to one side while Clark made minute adjustments and did an initial inspection, muttering to himself and making notations on a clipboard.

A quick beep-beep-beep announced the arrival of Hodgins, who took the stairs to the platform two at a time. He dropped a quick kiss on Angela's cheek and rubbed her back before he leaned over to inspect the body.

"We managed to remove some of the metal casing from the body, as you can see," Clark said, turning to Hodgins. "Some of it, however, we'll need to remove the welding joints on."

"I've got a plasma cutter at home that should make that task fairly easy," Hodgins said, leaning over and bracing his hands on his knees as he looked at the body. "Wow. Whoever did this did a _terrible_ job."

"Well, I wouldn't be at my best if I were fitting a corpse into a metal suit. That's the kind of stuff that makes your hands shake," Wendell observed. "Shaking hands don't make for good welds."

"Or maybe our guy is just a really terrible welder," Hodgins said, shrugging his shoulders.

"Okay, I'm going back to my office," Angela announced, her hand on her back. "Wendell, you'll let me know when you're ready for the reconstruction, right?"

"Absolutely." He lifted his head and flashed a brilliant smile at her.

Hodgins looked at her, worry in his eyes. "Everything okay?"

"I'm fine," Angela said with a patient smile. "Just tired. My chair's in my office."

Hodgins fought the urge to trail after her like an overanxious puppy. With Angela his general rule of thumb was to hold on loosely. Very, very loosely. To allow her as much space and freedom as she needed – for such a bright, loving and open person, she had a need for _room_ that was unmatched by nearly everyone else he knew. Too much concern would smother her – not enough would devastate her.

Still, he felt a sort of relief when Cam walked up the stairs with her. She'd been more tired than usual lately, and he sometimes felt flashes of guilt that they'd come to back to DC from Paris, where she'd seemed so free and easy. Maybe the stress of coming back to the Jeffersonian wasn't good for her. Maybe he should have suggested staying there, instead of dragging her back to this death and destruction that he knew she found exhausting and disheartening.

"Dr. Hodgins?" Clark's voice snapped him out of his reverie.

"Yeah?" He shook his head and looked up at him.

"You're free to go ahead and take the clothing – I've done some scrapings for particulates, as well."

"Oh. Hey. Thanks." Hodgins smiled weakly and stood up, brushing his hands off on his jeans. He took a pair of gloves and, fitting them into place, reached for the evidence bags Clark was gesturing at, heading back to his office, still half-lost in thought.

He was preparing slides and getting ready to run some samples through the mass spectrometer when the door to his office opened and Wendell stepped inside.

"Hey man," Hodgins said. "What's up?"

"Not much. I'm just checking on you and Angie. Everything okay?"

Hodgins shrugged. "She says it's fine."

"Ah." Wendell found a stress ball on Hodgins' desk and started to toss it back and forth between his hands. "But you think it isn't?"

"I think she's tired." Hodgins removed his gloves, tossed them into a trash can and slid the glass slide under a microscope. "More tired than she'd like to admit."

Wendell shrugged his shoulders. "Aren't pregnant women supposed to be tired?"

"Yeah." Hodgins sighed. "I don't know, man. I don't know that we did the right thing, coming back."

"Were things better in Paris?"

"I don't know. Maybe? Ange was an artist in Paris, you know? It was like she walked around on clouds the whole time." Hodgins shrugged. "Maybe that would be better than being here."

"She finds this work important, too." Wendell found a chair and plopped down in it. "If she didn't want to come back, she would have told you."

"I guess that's true."

"So. Twins, huh?"

"Crazy, right?" Hodgins turned his attention to focusing the microscope. With deft fingers and the ease of long practice, he swiftly brought the sample to clarity.

"Yeah. You're going to go from zero to a hundred and twenty in like, three seconds flat." Wendell squeezed the stress ball and tossed it in the air. "You ready for that?"

Hodgins laughed. "Yeah. It's going to be insane, but then... life with Ange has never been what I'd call easy, you know?"

"Yeah. I know." Wendell got to his feet, set the ball down on his desk. "I'd better get back to work. Dr. Edison's a slave driver."

"Okay. Hey, listen, man..." Hodgins lifted his eyes from the microscope. "Thanks."

"You're welcome." Wendell left the office, the door closing behind him.

Hodgins returned his attention back to the sample. "Now. What are you, my beauty?"

* * *

Sweets found himself ensconced in the backseat of the SUV, a sort of nervous anticipation settling over him – that same feeling the lonely kid gets when he's asked to join the cool kids for lunch, he thought with a self-deprecating eyeroll. Someday, maybe these two would stop making him feel that way.

Booth and Brennan took their traditional seats and with no discussion at all, Booth started the SUV and eased the truck onto the nearly abandoned main drag that ran through the town.

"So!" Sweets said brightly. "How are you two doing?"

"We are satisfactory, as you can see," Brennan said, glancing at Booth out of the corner of her eye.

"Booth?"

"We're fine, Sweets." Booth glanced down at the gas gauge. "I'm guessing we're going to have to get gas soon, Bones."

Noting that attempt at avoidance, Sweets sat back in his seat. This he could handle. "It must be quite a switch, huh? To go from digging up ancient remains in Indonesia to the backroads of Kansas."

"It has required some adjustment," Brennan acknowledged. "However, I am not finding adapting difficult."

"What about you, Agent Booth?"

"What part of 'we're fine' did you miss, Sweets?"

"See, it's interesting that you insist on using the plural pronoun. I'm asking how _you_, individually, are coping with a return to the States and your FBI work."

"Okay, then. _I'm_ fine." Booth snapped on his sunglasses. "I don't know how else to say it."

Sweets made a sound in the back of his throat, and the vein in Booth's forehead just about popped out of the skin. Brennan cleared her throat and stepped in.

"Agent Booth is coping very well, considering he has just returned from a war zone. Sweets, I think it would be more helpful if you would concentrate your questions on the case at hand. Booth and I need to focus on work at the moment."

"That's right." Booth nodded and shot Brennan a grateful look. "Work. Work is what's important."

"Is it?" Sweets raised his eyebrows. "Nothing else on your mind?"

"Jesus, Sweets. What the hell do you want me to say?"

Sweets shrugged. "I'd appreciate honesty."

There was an odd sort of pop, and then the SUV swerved. Sweets grasped for purchase on the seat of the SUV and held on for dear life while Booth muscled them off the road. When they finally came to a stop Booth's door was the first to open. Sweets followed him immediately and saw Booth crumple to the ground, putting his head between his knees. He'd gone completely white. Sweets rushed forward, Dr. Brennan right behind him.

"Agent Booth?"

Brennan was quiet, her arms crossed over her chest, but she watched Dr. Sweets with narrowed eyes.

"Agent Booth? I need you to respond to me, please."

"What?" Booth lifted his eyes. They were still foggy.

"Our SUV blew a tire," Sweets said evenly. "You got us off the road. Are you okay?"

"I was – I was driving and the tire went out." Booth shakily got himself to his feet. Brennan handed him a bottle of water from the car wordlessly.

"That's correct." Sweets watched Booth uncap the bottle. "Is this the first time you've flashed back to Afghanistan?"

Booth made an impatient noise. "No, but..." he drained the water bottle. "It's under control, okay Sweets?"

"Booth, you're having flashbacks?" Brennan's voice was soft but both men could tell she was displeased.

"Not... often, okay? Just... just three since I've been home, which is good..."

"Because last time they were much harder to deal with," Sweets finished.

"Well, yeah." Booth shrugged. "I'll be fine. I got us safe, didn't I?"

"Yes, you did," Brennan acknowledged.

"I certainly don't think we're done discussing this. However, I think now would be an appropriate time to focus on the task at hand," Sweets said brightly, rubbing his hands together and shucking his suit jacket. "Let's change a tire, Agent Booth!"

"I'll change the tire. You'll stay out of my way."

"I can change a tire," Brennan interjected. "There's no need for you to prove your alpha male prowess, Booth."

"You know, not everything has to be a damn feminist statement. Sometimes a guy just wants to change a tire."

"If you want to, you certainly may," Brennan said. "Just know that I _could_ do it."

"Yeah, I know, Bones. You could do anything."

* * *

Hodgins knocked on Cam's office door and stepped inside when she gestured him in. She was on the phone, chatting brightly with her obstetrician-boyfriend, and he waited while she ended the conversation.

"What've you got for me, Hodgins?"

"Tetrachloroethylen," Hodgins said. "Our second victim's clothes are covered in it."

"Clothes with dry cleaning fluid? Not that odd," Cam said.

"Yeah, but it's also in the scrapings we took of skin cells."

"Wait a minute. I think I remember... in that list Brennan sent over..." Cam reached across her desk. "Tom O'Hara... owned a dry cleaning business."

Hodgins shrugged. "That would explain the high levels of the chemical in every scraping we took."

"I'll get his information to Clark and Wendell – they can see if his stats match up with the victim's. Thanks, Hodgins."

"You're welcome." He turned to leave.

"Hodgins?"

"Yeah?"

"Why don't you and Angela take off early tonight?"

"Huh?"

Cam shrugged and picked up the file. "You're both looking tired. You've done a lot of good work today and the mass spec needs to finish running, right?"

"Right."

"So. Go home. Take a load off. Chill out." Cam patted his back as she passed him. "You deserve it."

"Oh hey." Hodgins grinned. "Thanks."

"Not a problem. Get out of here, workaholic."

Hodgins was already taking off his lab coat. "Already out the door!"


	14. Fourteen: The Lollipop Guild

**Author's Note: **Thanks must go out to the fabulous Cathmarchr and Kat Morning for doing a super-lightning fast beta on this so that I could keep my promises. Things really pick up in this chapter, and there is a lot of language. Mind the M rating.

**Chapter Fourteen: The Lollipop Guild**

Mrs. Hoake turned to Parker once his dad had left and smiled brightly. "Well, Parker, what do you want to do?"

"You said you had a bike I could borrow?" he asked hopefully.

"Of course." Mrs. Hoake pushed open the back door and led Parker out the back door, past the garden to a little shed that stood lopsidedly facing the north of the property. "There aren't a lot of places to go around here, but my girls always did like to take the roads back into the country." She pointed vaguely west. "If you head that direction there's a little creek that's actually got water in it. You could take a pole if you want to try to catch something. The girls weren't supposed to go swimming in it, but I know they did, if you like that."

"Sweet," Parker said, grinning wide as Mrs. Hoake opened the door to the shed and flipped the light on, crossing the room quickly to pull the bike she'd spoke about down from a peg on the wall. It was old: it had a banana seat and oddly arched handlebars, and the powder blue paint was faded and chipped in several places. Parker rubbed his hands together as he surveyed it. "Do you have a air pump, Mrs. Hoake?"

"Yes, it should be on that shelf over your head," she said, dusting off her pants. "Do you think you'll need anything else?"

"No, thanks," Parker said, removing his shirt and dusting off the bike quickly. "Dad and I take care of our bikes at home. I remember how to do everything."

"Good." Mrs. Hoake smiled gently at him and sighed. "Well, if you don't think you'll need me, I'll start on the pies for tonight. There's a dance at Sparky's. You and your folks should come."

"I'll ask Dad. He doesn't really like that kind of stuff, sometimes. He says he's more into beer than caviar." Parker shrugged.

"Oh, there'll be more beer than caviar at this shindig, hon," Mrs. Hoake said, with a smile on her lips. "It's not a DC dance. Do you have the phone number for the B&B, in case you get lost?"

Parker wiggled his cell phone at her, which he produced from a pocket. "Yep. I'm golden. Thanks, Mrs. Hoake!"

"See ya, Parker!" she said, and left the shed.

"Wow," Parker breathed, with the appreciation males have for working machinery as he spun one of the tires. "You're totally old, but that's totally cool. This won't take long at all."

Finding grease, an extra chain and an allen wrench, Parker set to work. He greased the chain, pumped the tires, adjusted the handlebars and the seat. Half an hour later, he was covered in dust, grease and sweat, and he was ready to roll. He whipped his shirt off, tied it around his waist, threw open the door to the shed and jumped on the bike. One strong push from his legs and he was off. "Wicked," he breathed, as he rolled off the property and on to the street. In DC, he wouldn't have been given free reign like this. He could go anywhere, do anything... Maybe even take a dip in that creek that Mrs. Hoake mentioned.

The sun was high in the sky and hot on his back, but he had a bottle of water and a sandwich in his basket that Mrs. Hoake had discreetly left for him on the workbench. Mrs. Hoake was fast becoming one of Parker's favorite people. He powered his way out of town onto the dirt roads that led in all directions.

Heading north and west, he passed farm houses and fields of soy beans, wheat, corn, and grains he didn't recognize. He pulled over for a few minutes and climbed up on the fence of a field where a herd of cattle were grazing and noticed for the first time how long their eyelashes were and how huge the eyes were.

"Whoa," he said, reaching out his hand for one of the cows near the fence he was bracing his weight on. She raised her eyes at him and let out a moo, startling him off the fence. "Whoa," he said again. "That was loud."

He watched them for a while, the calves with their mothers and the cows drinking water, but he soon grew tired of that, since they didn't really do much except eat and drink. So he climbed back on his bike and headed off down the road. Ten more minutes of farmland and rolling hills and he came to a bridge. A smile broke across his face and he jumped off the bike and rushed down to the bank of the creek. Pulling his socks and shoes off, he jumped in without thought.

The water wasn't exactly cool – it was far too hot a day for that, but it was wet and not moving too quickly, only coming up to Parker's calf. He splashed around for a while, sinking his fingers deep into the mud of the creek bed and investigating the insects he found there.

It was quiet – far more quiet than it ever was in DC, but he could hear the sound of cicadas piercing the air and the far-off roar of farm machinery. It was pretty cool to just be by himself, watching water bugs zoom across the surface of the water. Later he might do some fishing, he decided. Every once in a while he felt something wriggle past his legs that might be a fish.

Suddenly the sound of an engine broke the silence and Parker lifted his head from the water. Curious, he splashed his way out of the creek and climbed up the bank to the side of the road to see what was going on.

An old pick-up truck was barreling down the road, driving way too fast, Parker thought, for the roads, since it swerved a little even driving straight. It was heading right toward the bridge he'd left his bike on, and he hoped that the truck didn't hit it, but the truck pulled off the road and killed its engine on the other side of the creek from where Parker was. Some instinct told him to stay silent even as he satisfied his curiosity by approaching the vehicle.

He hardly breathed as a woman got out of the driver's seat and lifted a large sack from the back seat. She looked this way and that, but Parker dropped to the ground and stayed absolutely still, like a sniper in the movies would have done.

After what seemed like a long time, she closed the passenger side door and walked away, carrying the heavy sack, huffing with the effort it took. She'd been gone for several long moments before Parker got up from the ground and approached the truck.

He opened the passenger side door and looked inside of it. "Whoa," he said again. "That is a _lot_ of blood."

A crack of a stick sounded like a firecracker to Parker's hyper-sensitive ears. His Dad had told him a lot of things, but not what to do if he saw someone take a bloody bag out of a truck. Still, if anyone would know, it would be Dad. He ran to the other side of the bridge and laid flat on the bank, pulling out his cell phone and dialing his dad's number on the speed dial.

* * *

Agent Donaldson sighed in frustration. He'd been in Salina for less than five hours, but all of his interviews had gone nowhere. The junior agent they'd stuck him with, Quentin, was bright-eyed, clever and hopeful, but naïve, in the way that young agents sometimes were.

His cell phone rang as he was sitting at the counter of the diner he'd chosen to have dinner at. "Donaldson," he said, swallowing his fries gamely.

"It's Booth."

Donadlson lifted his eyebrows. "What can I do for you, sir?"

"We've got an identity on the second body. Tom O'Hara. We're driving into the town where his dry cleaning business is, but if we can find a connection between him and the senator, that would be ideal."

"Yeah, of course," Donaldson said. "Let me just get the senator's widow on the phone, ask her a few questions. Maybe she'll know. If not, Quentin and I can dig deeper."

"How's that going?"

"Oh, well enough," Donaldson said diplomatically, "She'll do just fine." Quentin gave him a bright smile and he nodded at her.

"Good. Keep your head up. I don't know why the KC office sent you a newbie, but..."

"Yeah, I know. We aren't going to let you down, Agent Booth. We'll get you something just as soon as we can."

"Right. Stay safe, Donaldson."

"Will do, boss." He hung up the phone and threw a twenty on the counter. "Let's go, Quentin. We've got to talk to the Senator's wife."

"But..." she glanced down at her half-finished grilled chicken sandwich. "Oh, all right."

Getting in to see the senator's wife was harder than it had been the first time, but Donaldson pushed and prodded and flashed his badge relentlessly. Eventually, a young woman with brown hair came down to the front desk of the hotel and looked them over.

"I'm Carrie Williams, the senator's daughter. Can I ask why you want to talk to my mother?"

"No." Donaldson said flatly. "I'm afraid we've got to ask your mother some questions purtaining to your father's murder investigation, and when we're done with her we'll probably have to talk to you. It's not optional."

"Mother is very upset. Please just... if you can be gentle..." Her hands were wrung together. "We just got her calmed down. The Jeffersonian won't release Dad's remains to her and she wants to get him buried."

"I'm sorry. These investigations take time," Quentin said, reaching out a gentling hand and laying it flat on Carrie's arm. "I know it can be very frustrating when you want to put your loved one to rest, but we need to find out the truth of who did this."

"Yes, of course." Carrie shook herself. "Well, I can take you up to see Mom, but I would really like to get her her pills and put her in bed within the next couple of hours. She hasn't been sleeping well and I worry."

"Of course." Quentin nodded briskly. "Lead on, Miss Williams. We'll be as quick as we possibly can."

Donaldson flashed the younger agent a grateful smile as they stepped in the elevator and went up to the suite level of the hotel. Carrie Williams opened the door to her mother's rooms and gestured them in. "Mom? There are some FBI agents here to talk to you."

"I've already talked to the FBI," a voice called from the bedroom. "I'm tired. Can't I rest?"

"Just a few more questions, Mom," Carrie said, pushing open the bedroom. "Let's get you in some proper clothes, okay?"

Donaldson raised his eyebrows at Quentin.

"I guess the widow's taking it pretty hard, huh?" Quentin asked.

"Well, I can't imagine having your husband found trussed up in a field dressed like a scarecrow would be an easy thing to take," Donaldson said dryly. "Plus, there's a some history of mental illness. It might have been too much for her."

"Sorry about that," Carrie said, leading her mother out of the bedroom. She was dressed in a tracksuit, a little more pale than the last time Donaldson had seen her. Her hands were shaking a bit and she had to be helped onto the sofa.

"We're ready to answer questions now," Carrie said. "Is it all right if I stay?"

Donaldson nodded. "At this time, that will be acceptable."

"What can we help you with?"

"We'd like to know if either of you has a connection with or any knowledge of a Mr. Tom O'Hara."

Mrs. Williams' eyes widened. "No," she whispered.

"No? You've never heard of him?" Donaldson asked, keeping his voice even.

"Get out!" Mrs. Williams waved her hands. "That bitch! She can't leave me alone, even now? Bitch! Whore!"

"Ma'am, who won't leave you alone?" Quentin pressed, leaning forward. "Who's got you frightened?"

"Out! Out!" Her eyes were wild and she jumped up. "I won't have that devil's spawn anywhere near me!"

"Who?" Quentin stayed seated. "Who's a devil's spawn?"

"That whore! That cunt! She took my husband and now..."

"Who is Tom O'Hara to you, Mrs. Williams?" Donaldson got to his feet. "You need to tell us. We can't find who murdered your husband if you won't tell us."

"Tom O'Hara was a friend of my father's," Carrie Williams said flatly, not moving to help her mother. "In 1962, he and my father allegedly helped another man, Nathan Young, rape a young woman."

"Shut your mouth!" Mrs. Williams screeched, rushing across the room. She raised her hand to slap her daughter. "You shut your filthy little mouth. Your father is _dead_." Donaldson stepped in and easily stopped her hand from connecting with Carrie. "Your father is _dead_," she wailed.

"Where is Nathan Young?" Quentin asked Carrie.

"Dad pays for his trailer," Carrie said, her mouth set in a thin line. "It's in Abilene someplace. We have the records somewhere."

"I'll need you to find that information for me," Donaldson said, still holding a weeping Mrs. Williams. "If someone's targeting these men, then it may be too late."

"Your father was a good man!" Mrs. Williams shouted out at her daughter as she disappeared into the office of the suite. "He was a good man. That woman... she... she _asked_ for it."

"No one asks to be raped, Mrs. Williams." Quentin crossed her arms over her chest, watching Carrie go through the records in the office.

"I don't think they're here. I'll have to go into the campaign office to find them," Carrie said flatly. "I'm sorry about this. I..."

"How do you know all of this?" Donaldson asked. "I can't imagine this is the kind of stuff your father would tell you."

"No, it wasn't," Carrie said. "I ran the campaign finances and I started helping Dad with taxes last year. I noticed that not everything added up. It wasn't difficult to put two and two together. Dad had been paying off these two men and the family of the young woman for years."

"Do you know the name of the young woman who was raped?"

"Yeah. She's not alive, though. She died earlier this year, after her youngest son died in Afghanistan."

"Maybe it was someone related to her, though... anything could help at this point."

Carrie sighed. "Her name was Marie Hubbard."

* * *

Hodgins followed Angela into their home, tossing his keys into the key bowl – an item he had never owned until Angela moved in and insisted that they use one of her pieces as a catch-all for keys, otherwise she would constantly lose hers.

"You want to order in Chinese?" Angela called over her shoulder. "I could eat a horse. That's how hungry I am, and frankly, I don't want to cook."

"What? Oh yeah. Sure." He coughed and took off his jacket, hanging it up.

"You okay? You seemed kind of distracted today." Angela whipped out her phone and went through her contacts for their favorite Chinese place.

"What? Me?" Hodgins shook his head. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"You're full of crap, is what you are," Angela said, with a gentle smile. "Don't go anywhere. I'll get the truth out of you yet. Hello? I'd like an order for delivery, please."

Hodgins moved to the living room, the gentle cadence of Angela's voice drifting from the hallway. Absently, he went through his collection of vinyl LPs. Maybe playing some music would take the edge off of this worried spiral his thoughts had fallen into.

"Your children make my back hurt," Angela said, as she entered the living room, heading towards her favorite couch. "Half the time I think pregnancy is this really spiritual experience, you know? Sacred. And the other half, I just want it over."

Hodgins looked at her with apologetic eyes. "Sorry."

"Hey." Angela threw a pillow at him. "Not your fault. I am being grumpy. What's _with_ you today?"

"Are you happy?" Hodgins asked, worriedly. "I mean... are you... Did you want to go back? To Paris, I mean. Because we could go back."

"What makes you think I want to go back to Paris?"

Hodgins shrugged. "We just... got dumped on this really huge, complicated case. And it seems like you're tired and..."

"Jack. It doesn't matter where we are. I'm five months pregnant with twins. I'm going to be tired."

"True, but..."

"I'm glad we're back," Angela said firmly. "I missed my friends. I missed our little family. Paris was great, Jack, but... _this_ is our life. You wouldn't be happy just crawling around the banks of the Seine looking at French bugs when you could be here, solving murders."

"No, but what about you?"

"It's good work. It has to be done. Everyone deserves to die with a face, with an identity. It's good, Jack. And besides, I married this really rich guy. I can stop anytime I want to and paint post-modern portraits of modern America." She smirked, patting the seat next to her.

He flopped next to her, and took her hand. "I want you to be happy."

"Are you kidding? I'm happier now than I've ever been. I've got you, I've got these children inside of me, I've got my best friend. Stop worrying about it, Jack. If I'm unhappy, I will tell you, okay? Relax." She poked him in the belly, a smile peeking through the earnest expression on her face.

Something settled in him. "Okay."

"Now. Just concentrate on being a good pillow. I'm going to take a pre-dinner nap, and you smell good."

"What?" He blinked at her, but she was already arranging herself over his lap. He smiled and buried his hand in her hair, fingering the strands and smiling. He leaned his head back against the couch and closed his eyes. He could use a pre-dinner nap, too.

* * *

Sweets, Brennan and Booth got the tire of the rented SUV changed and were soon headed back down the road, albeit a little more somber than they had been at the beginning of the day. It took them nearly forty-five minutes to get to Oberlin, the town where Tom O'Hara had owned his dry-cleaning business.

They parked in front of the Duckwalls and walked to the storefront that had been roped off with police tape.

"You think you can tell us anything about our victim from where he worked, Sweets?" Booth asked.

"Well, yeah," Sweets said. "I'll do my best."

"Should be getting a report from Donaldson soon. You okay here? Bones and I are going to ask around, see if anybody has seen anything, try to get a feel for the guy."

"I'll be fine, Agent Booth, but don't think it has escaped my notice that you are attempting to separate us to avoid talking about what happened out there on the road."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, Sweets. Just... do your thing, okay? Call us if you need anything."

"Right."

They left Sweets and walked down the street to the next small business, which was a law firm. Brennan proceeded him inside and spoke quietly to the paralegal seated at the front of the office.

Booth looked around, noticing the pictures of the local high school football team, the certificates on the wall, the faint smell of sawdust.

"I would have been the first person in that day," the paralegal was saying, as Booth snapped his attention back where it was supposed to be.

"Did you see anything unusual?"

"No. Tom's open before we are, usually. I just noticed that he wasn't there. I figured he must have been sick or something. I thought maybe I would call over and see if he needed anything on his lunch break. But then I called and I didn't get an answer, so I guess I just forgot about him until the next day when he wasn't open again. That's when we called the sheriff and they found all the signs that he'd been taken."

Booth's phone rang just then. He gestured at Brennan to continue to question the young woman while he stepped outside. "Booth."

"Donaldson, sir. We've got another potential victim. Guy named Nathan Young. Seems he and the senator and our second victim raped a young woman in 1962. Williams has been paying everyone involved to keep it quiet for decades."

"Got a name for the rape victim?"

"Yeah, but that doesn't help us much. She's been dead for about seven months, sir. Died of a heart attack after her youngest son was killed by insurgents in Afghanistan. Marie Hubbard."

Booth's blood ran cold. "Son of a bitch."

"Sir?"

The calling waiting beeped on Booth's phone. He glanced at it. "That's my son. You find Nathan Young, you get a protection detail on him fast. FBI _only_. I think we're looking for a law enforcement officer here."

"Yes sir. I'll pull everything we've got on Marie Hubbard and send it to your phone, too."

"Good. I hope I'm wrong about this." Booth switched over the line. "What's going on, buddy? I'm in the middle of an investigation."

"There's a woman out here dumping a big sack in the creek, Dad! And there's blood all over her car!"

Booth's blood ran cold. "Did she see you?"

"No. I hid."

"Okay. Wait till she leaves. Don't follow her. Then you get out of there, do you hear me?"

"Oh, okay. Uh, Dad? I've got to go."

"Wait. Parker?"

Silence.

"Parker? Parker!"


	15. Fifteen: King of the Forest

**Author's Note: **Thanks to Cathmarchr and Kat Morning for being such rock star betas this time around. We're getting close, guys! Five away from the end. Give or take.

**Chapter Fifteen: King of the Forest**

Parker stilled when he saw the woman freeze, hanging up on his dad as quickly as possible. Dad would probably freak, he thought, but he also didn't want the lady with the bloody truck seeing where he was hiding.

She looked a little like a dog who'd heard the sound of a cat invading its territory, turning her head this way and that. She had been bent over, dumping the sack in the creek, but she stood up slowly, pasting a wide smile on her face.

"Who's there?" she called. "I can hear you."

Parker lay lower, concentrating on not breathing as loudly as his racing heart wanted him to. There was no way, he thought, that she could see him. The weeds growing on the creek bed were way too tall, so she would be relying on her sense of hearing to detect him, and if he didn't give her anything to hear, maybe she would think she had imagined him in the first place.

He could hear her rustling through the weeds – drawing closer and closer to him. He fought his instincts that were shouting at him to run and get away. His first plan had been the most rational – that's what Bones would say. Dad would say that he'd committed himself – like stealing a base, Parker decided, the only way that didn't work for him was when he panicked halfway through and tried to back up.

He wished, for a moment, that Dad was here. Or that he had a shirt on. There were all kinds of bugs irritating his skin, but he dared not move, even as a spider investigated one of his fingers.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are," the woman mocked. "Olly Olly oxen free!"

Parker bit his lip. He didn't know why, but he wanted to cry. Something about her tone of voice... then he heard it. Parker had been around guns his whole life. He knew exactly what it sounded like when his father loaded and unloaded his Magnum. His heart threatened to beat out of his chest.

"I don't want to shoot you," she said loudly, her boots tromping through the underbrush. "I want you to come out, so we can have a discussion."

He wanted his dad. He thought back – tried to remember everything his dad had ever told him about what to do if someone had a gun. It hadn't been much – much of Parker's gun education had been Dad telling him that guns weren't toys and he wasn't supposed to touch them without Dad around.

He closed his eyes against the fierce sun and held his breath.

When he opened his eyes again, she was standing right over him.

Parker couldn't help it. He opened his mouth and let out a scream. The woman held her gun like she meant business. She had that look in her eye – all hard, and her smile was unpleasant. Parker was a cop's kid. He knew his best shot was to not let her take him.

Grunting, he kicked out, connecting solidly with the front of her knees, which buckled. Then he kicked back, and brought her to the ground by sweeping her feet out from underneath of her. Her head connected solidly with a rock and she was out. The keys to her truck fell to the ground and he picked them up, taking her gun as well. He was a few feet away when he threw the keys across the creek bed into the slow-moving stream. The gun he tucked in the waistband of his shorts. When he looked over his shoulder, she was twitching. He started to run.

"Son of a bitch!" he heard her yell. He didn't have time to say anything back. He had to run. He had to get out of there as fast as he could.

He ran up the steep creek bed and hopped on his bike. She had nearly caught up with him by the time he pushed off, and she reached out with two hands to grab the back of the bike. Desperately, Parker took the gun and whacked her head with it. She dropped to the ground like a rock and he took off, pedaling as fast as he could, not stopping once to look over his shoulder to make sure that she was gone.

* * *

"Parker!" Booth was shouting long after the phone went dead. Brennan let the door to the law office - where she had been questioning the clerk about their second victim's last days – shut behind her with a bang and grabbed his arm.

"Booth?" His eyes immediately snapped to her face. Brennan let out a sigh of relief. He hadn't completely shut down – he rarely did in the face of a crisis, but this was an entirely different situation than they'd ever been in before – they'd never been this unprepared, this unsteady. "What's going on?"

"Parker. He says he saw a woman dumping a large bloody sack into a creek on his bike ride." Booth drew in an unsteady breath. "Then he said he had to go and he hung up."

Sweets burst out of the law office down the street. "Booth? What's going on? I heard shouting."

"Parker may be in trouble. Call Mrs. Hoake at the B&B," Brennan said to Sweets, taking Booth's hand in her own. "Ask her if she knows where Parker might have gone on his bike ride – if she can give us an idea, we'll be better off. Booth? Give me the keys."

"Bones -"

"You are in no condition to drive," she said firmly. "We don't have time to argue about this now, Booth. Just give me the keys."

He tossed her a key ring and she caught in her hand, largely ignoring what Sweets was saying to Mrs. Hoake. She couldn't worry about Parker, worry about Booth, pay attention to Sweets and start the car at the same time. Although she was very intelligent, her ability to compartmentalize was a bit hindered by her affection for the Booths. She steeled herself against the rising panic in her stomach. Perhaps Parker was over-reacting. Nine-year-old boys often had overactive imaginations.

As she laid her foot against the accelerator, and they raced back where they had come from, Brennan internally cursed the rural nature of the area they found themselves in – the sheer amount of space the case had covered was much larger than their normal cases, and she wasn't used to driving forty-five minutes between towns deemed "close" to each other.

"Dr. Brennan?" Sweets tapped her on the shoulder.

"I am driving, Dr. Sweets. I cannot turn to give my attention to you."

"Of course. That was Mrs. Hoake. She says she sent Parker north and west of town towards a creek that runs through the farmland."

"Is our current route acceptable for now?" Brennan asked.

"For now, yeah."

Booth's cell phone rang and he lifted it, checking the display for Parker's name. Brennan watched him out of the corner of her eye and noted the impatient downward turn of Booth's lips. Not Parker, then. "This is Booth."

Brennan could faintly hear Agent Donaldson on the other line giving his report over what he'd found about the alleged rape victim who had died earlier that year.

"Dr. Brennan!" Sweets said sharply, and Brennan realized that she'd let the SUV stray a little off of the road. She quickly corrected the vehicle, but Booth reached for her hand and squeezed it. Like _she_ needed _his_ support. She swallowed. She couldn't afford to be anyone other than herself. She had to put her concern for Booth in a box with her concern for Parker, so that she could assist Booth as he needed her.

He still wasn't done on the phone, she realized. "What was the name of her son that was killed in Afghanistan, Donaldson?" A short pause. "Justin Hubbard. You sure about that? Yeah, that's what I thought. Put out an APB on Kansas State Trooper Jessica Flint, please. Yeah – she's his sister. I think that's who we want, and I think she's after my kid."

He hung up the phone and squeezed Brennan's hand as she drove as fast as she safely could down the highway.

"Okay, Mrs. Hoake said to turn off up here," Sweets said, pointing at a dirt road a few hundred feet in front of them. "She said the creek runs about three miles down this road."

"It won't be long, Booth," Brennan said.

"Maybe not long at all," Sweets said. "Look!"

Brennan hit the brakes hard, but Booth was already halfway out the SUV before she had it stopped. They could make out the shape of a boy on a bicycle coming down the dirt road, and Booth ran, full-speed towards him.

"Parker!" he shouted.

The boy dropped his bike and ran the last hundred feet to his father, who wrapped him in a tight hug. "I'm sorry," Parker was saying as Brennan neared them. "I'm so sorry, Dad. I think I killed her."

"What?" Booth backed off. "What happened, bub?"

"I didn't mean to," Parker said, and Brennan could tell he'd been crying for a while, "but she had a gun and..."

Brennan's sharp eyes caught the outline of the weapon tucked in Parker's waistband. "Why don't you give your father the gun, Parker?"

"Did you use her gun to shoot her?" Booth asked.

"No. I hit her on the head really hard and she didn't move." Parker's lips wibbled. "She didn't move, Dad, but she wouldn't let me go. She was trying to hurt me."

"You did good, bub. You did the right thing, okay?" Booth still hadn't let Parker go, when he handed Brennan the weapon.

"Most people survive blunt trauma like that," Brennan observed. "It is highly unlikely that you could have generated enough force to kill her, Parker. It is most likely that she is only unconscious."

"Dad?" Even Brennan could see the need for affirmation in Parker's eyes.

"Bones doesn't lie about stuff like that, Parks."

The little boy shivered. Even at almost-ten years old, all Brennan could see was the four-year-old who'd clung to his father and whispered Merry Christmas to her. Booth and Parker broke apart and Brennan cleared her throat.

"May I... that is..."

"Bones has been worried about you, bub," Booth said softly. "Why don't you go over and give her a hug, let her know you're okay?"

Unaccountably grateful that Booth knew what she needed, Brennan's eyes filled with tears as Parker stepped into her arms. She had been extremely worried – both about Booth and Parker. Her partner's eyes were hard.

"We should take you back to Mrs. Hoake's place, then go and see if the woman is still at the dump site," Booth said, but Brennan could read the reluctance in his eyes.

"Dad, let me come with you. I promise I'll stay out of the way."

"Parker, if she had one gun, it's possible she had more," Brennan interjected. "It just wouldn't be safe."

Parker shook his head. "Dad, I can show you right where she was. I'll be safe with you right there, I promise."

"Parker, bub..." Booth started helplessly.

"If I may, Agent Booth?" Sweets grabbed his arm and pulled him off to the side, walking some distance until they were out of earshot.

"You're not really giving me much of a choice there, Sweets," Booth growled.

"I know, and I'll feel mega-guilty later, but I think Parker's asking for something from you here, Agent Booth." Sweets' eyes were uncompromising. "You should recognize the need he has to figure out what exactly he needs to take responsibility for."

"No matter what he did, Parker did it to defend himself. He's responsible for nothing," Booth said harshly.

"Valid point, Agent Booth, but one that will mean nothing to Parker unless he can see that for himself." Sweets shrugged his shoulders. "Parker's entering a stage in his life where he's going to start figuring out what his principles are – what his identity really is."

"So you're saying I take my kid back to the place where had to _pistol-whip_ someone for the sake of his development?"

"I'm saying he's very much like you. What would you need to do?"

Booth huffed in irritation but threw open the door to the SUV. "Parker, let's get that bike in the back here so you can show me where I'm going."

"I get to come? Really?"

"Yes. But you're going to stay in the car until I tell you can get out, and if I ask you to get down, you get down, okay?"

"Sure, Dad." Parker helped his father load the bike in the back of the SUV and climbed in the backseat with Sweets. Brennan took the passenger seat this time, silently acknowledging that Booth was back in control. Parker directed them down the county road, and once the bridge was within eye-sight, Booth parked the SUV. He dialed the sheriff's phone number, requested backup, and then turned to look in the backseat.

"Parks? Bones and I are going to go take a look." Booth reached down and removed his revolver from his ankle. "Sweets, I'm trusting you to look after my kid. Can you handle this?"

"Me?" Sweets looked absurdly like he was about to get the first present Christmas morning. "Yeah, I've totally got this."

"If Sweets gets a firearm, I would like to carry one as well," Brennan interjected, raising a finger.

"Yeah, Bones. You're going to get my handgun. I'm taking the rifle, and we're both going in with bullet-proof vests. If she's still out there, we're not taking any chances."

It didn't take Booth long to adjust his gear and Brennan's, and they walked the quarter mile to the bridge in silence. He could feel the weight of her gaze – silently measuring him to make sure he was okay, just as he scoped the terrain out. It was a potentially dangerous situation they were walking into. Luckily, the landscape didn't offer much in the way of trees to climb, but there were all kinds of thick grass that a fugitive might hide in and use for excellent cover.

"Booth?" Brennan stepped on to the actual bridge and squatted down. "I believe this is where Parker hit his attacker. You can see this blood spatter? He hit her hard enough to bleed, but there's not enough blood here to indicate homicide."

Booth scrambled over the bridge and down the creek bed. "Found some deep tracks over here. This is where the truck Parker saw must have been."

"We should start searching the area for a body," Brennan said, straightening. "You should call Sweets, tell him he can bring Parker out here if he wishes. I'm confident in my assessment that - based on the amount of blood here, and the lack of the vehicle she used - his attacker walked away from their encounter alive."

"Yeah. That'll make Park feel better," Booth said darkly, "but it sure won't help me sleep at night."

* * *

Donaldson and Quentin navigated their way through the trailer park at the outskirts of Abilene. They'd driven the half-hour between the two towns in a rented town car. Quentin worked a crossword puzzle and Donaldson tapped his fingers against the wheel impatiently - he felt almost certain that they were too late to help or question Nathan Young, the third man in a decades-long conspiracy to cover up a rape.

"Local officers are already on their way to secure the location, you know," Quentin said patiently.

"Excuse me?"

"You're tapping," she pointed out, pragmatically. "It's sort of annoying, so I thought I'd remind you that if there's anything there, the local PD is probably going to find it before we do."

Donaldson nearly growled in frustration. "Thank you."

Quentin beamed. "You're welcome."

"I just don't like that it's a cop," Donaldson hissed. "It makes me feel like an idiot. I met the woman. I shook her hand."

"Yeah, well, it's a good thing the FBI doesn't require psychic abilities for employment, otherwise you'd be out of a job." Quentin rolled her eyes. "Seven letters. Short-sighed."

"Myopic."

They found the lot number quickly enough, jumping out of the car to meet the two patrol cars already there. Three officers stood by the cars, chatting with each other when Donaldson got out of the car.

"Well?" he called.

"You the FBI?" One of the officers asked. His name tag indicated he was a sergeant.

"Yes. I'm Agent Donaldson, this is Agent Quentin." Donaldson put his hands on his hips. "What do you know? Is he here?"

"No. There's no sign of forced entry, but the neighbors haven't seen him in days. His registered vehicle is a 1985 Toyota Celica. No sign of that anywhere near the premises, either," Sergeant Brown said.

"And all the tax information and the neighbors confirm this is his most recent address?" Quentin asked.

"Yes, ma'am. Now, there is a shed in the back of the property. We're just waiting on a warrant to search it properly, sir," the officer said.

"Right." Donaldson strode to the backyard – what little there was of it, and walked around the shed.

"I grew up in a place like this," Quentin told him, one hand on her gun. "People kept all sorts of stuff in their sheds, but you know what they didn't use them for?"

"What?" Donaldson asked, not paying much attention to her.

"The internal organs of human beings," Quentin said. She indicated something with her foot. "Look real close here, Agent Donaldson. Get a good whiff. If that's not an intestine..."

Donaldson bent over. "Son of a bitch," he said, coughing and sputtering, bile rising in his throat. "Son of a bitch. That's probable cause." He paused. "Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?" Quentin narrowed her eyes.

"Listen. It sounds like someone's moving around in there."

"Sir, I don't -" she sighed and quieted. "Yes, it could be."

"Well, internal organs on the ground... could be our victim's still alive in there."

Quentin nodded and drew her weapon. "Let's go in."

Bursting in the door was almost anticlimatic. There was no one inside of it, but a smell hit everyone entering the small room like a solid wall – piss, decay, and blood. A mass of congealed blood and organs sat in one corner, dotted with maggots and fairly buzzing with a swarm of flies. Handprints in red dotted the wall: a psychotic children's art project.

To one side of the organs, another, entirely different sort of pile sat, almost organized. Golden yellow felt, cotton pillow stuffing, yellow yarn – all stained and matted with bodily fluids, were carefully folded in a tower. A pair of bloody scissors and a vicious looking knife sat atop it.

Quentin sighed. "We're too late, Donaldson."

"Yeah." He kicked the wall. "The killer's already got their Cowardly Lion."

"We've got chains here." Quentin pointed at manacles mounted to the wall. "That, combined with the handprints – I'm going to guess our vic was alive when he got his guts ripped out."

"That's not our killer's standard MO," Donaldson said, wrinkling his brow. "The other two vics, our perp knocked out with drugs before she inflicted most of her damage." Donaldson's phone rang, and he snapped it open. "Donaldson."

"Got bad news, Agent," Booth's voice said over the line.

"Let me guess," Donaldson said dryly. "You found the next victim."

"You psychic now, Donaldson?"

"No." Donaldson sighed and rubbed his eyes. "But I think I found your crime scene."

* * *

They'd found the body about a quarter mile downstream from the bridge. Parker had been the one to stumble upon the garbage bag, but Booth didn't let him open it. They'd radioed for techs and sent Parker and Sweets back to Mrs. Hoake's while Brennan processed the scene.

It was as gruesome as Donaldson's crime scene promised, and even Booth had to take a step back at one point, covering his mouth with the back of his hand. Brennan was photographing the scene when Booth's phone rang.

"Special Agent Seeley Booth," he said, turning away from the body, scanning the area quickly.

"Booth? It's Hacker."

"What can I do for you, Deputy Director?"

There was a coughing on the other end of the line. "Well, I did a bit of looking around for you – some poking, if you will."

"I've got a fresh crime scene here, Director, so..." Booth wiped his brow with the back of his forearm.

"Your guy, Williams? The sky was about to open up and rain glorious amounts of human waste upon him."

"Excuse me?"

"Vast amounts of shit, Agent Booth. Raining down upon his head in an unholy flood."

"Well, we've uncovered some pretty nasty stuff during the course of our investigation..."

"I don't think you're the only one, Agent Booth. There was a contingent of folks out in Kansas who were about to demand Williams step down. They figured out that not all of his campaign donations were making it to his campaign. He was using it to quietly pay off Flint's mother, Nathan Young, and Tom O'Hara... among other people."

"Flint's our number one suspect at this point, Director. We're just waiting to confirm with Parker that the woman he saw dumping the body in the creek was her."

"About that." Hacker coughed. "Flint was never a Kansas State Trooper. And we don't have a reliable address on her, either."

Booth kicked the ground. Hard. "It's not an easy thing to pull off an impersonation of a state trooper. She had to have help."

"She did. Her ex-husband, Tyler Flint, _was_ a State Trooper."

"What happened to him?"

"He's been missing the last three months."

Booth bit his lip so hard it bled. "Son of a bitch."

"Exactly. Booth?"

"Yeah?"

"Be careful."

"Always, Deputy Director."

* * *

The sun was sinking low in the sky when Booth and Brennan finally got to leave the crime scene. Booth turned the AC up as high as it would go and handed Brennan a bottle of water. She downed it, looking at him with one eye as she did so.

"What did Andrew want?"

"He had some news to share about the case."

Brennan raised her eyebrows. "Oh?"

"Yeah. Turns out the senator's plan of just paying everyone to keep quiet wasn't going to salvage his career for much longer."

"Not surprising. It is extremely difficult to keep secrets in today's media-rich environment."

Booth laughed. "Thanks, Professor."

"What else did he have to say?"

Booth sighed. "We got duped: Flint was never a Trooper."

"That is upsetting." Brennan closed her eyes and laid her head back against the headrest. "This case has been... very upsetting."

"I agree, Bones."

"I do not like to feel like I am no longer competent at my job, Booth."

"Hey." He reached for her hand. "I'm the one that should have noticed, right? There should have been _something_."

"It has been pointed out to me that expending energy feeling guilt over what should have happened is a waste of time," Brennan said, shaking her head. "We should try to move forward."

"All right. What do you think about our suspect?"

"She is extremely efficient. Three very clean murders in less than a week."

"She must have been planning this a while." Booth shook his head. "Maybe... you know? Her brother goes to Afghanistan, dies. Her mother dies of a broken heart, the money stops coming in. She kills her ex-husband for the life insurance..."

"You have no evidence to support that."

Booth smiled. "Just tossing out a theory, Bones."

"I suggest that we devote some time and energy to figuring out who Dorothy is. That's the obvious question."

"Oh hey, I did a little more asking around: the pasture that creek runs through? It's not official but it sounds like it's owned by Hebrew Rettinger."

Brennan's brow knitted together. "Do you think Dorothy could be Helen Rettinger?"

"I think it's an awfully big coincidence that all of the bodies have been dumped on Rettinger land."

"It's statistically unlikely that it _is_ a coincidence, Booth."

He sighed. "Exactly, Bones."

"We should make an effort to interview Helen Rettinger once more," Brennan said, as the SUV came to a stop in front of the B&B. "Maybe she has a connection to Jessica Flint."

Mrs. Hoake opened the front door and stepped out on the porch to greet them. "Are you two thinking of going over to the Rettingers' to interview Helen?"

Booth glanced over at Brennan. "Yeah, we thought we might. You really shouldn't be listening that closely, Mrs. Hoake. It's a federal investigation."

"Oh, I know. I'm a terrible snoop. I just wanted to save you some time, is all. Helen Rettinger won't be out at the farm tonight."

"Oh?" Brennan asked.

"No. There won't be much of anyone home in the whole county. There's a dance at Sparky's tonight."

Parker burst out the front door. "Yeah, Dad, and we're invited!"

"Uh. Well, I guess if we're invited..."

"It would give us a chance to interview more of the locals. Perhaps there's something they can tell us about Jessica Flint," Brennan said, glancing at Booth.

"I guess we're going to a dance then," Booth said, shrugging his shoulders.

"You folks will want to hurry and clean up," Mrs. Hoake said, gently pushing Booth inside. "The dance starts in half an hour and you've got to get there before Rusty Hemway if you want a chance at all at a cold beer. Dr. Sweets has already volunteered to DD."

They could hear Sweets shout from the back of the house. "What?"


	16. Sixteen: Poppies

**Author's Note: **Sorry this one is released so late in the evening, one, and two, that this is unbeta'd. I've been sick and battling joint pain in my hands. I barely finished on time, but I hate breaking my promises to my readers.

**Chapter Sixteen: Poppies  
**

Booth shut the door to his room and stood for a moment. It was the first time since the morning he'd had to simply absorb what had happened that day, to really let it hit him. His shoulders slumped, and his hands fisted. He tossed his suit jacket on the bed, and started to unbutton his shirt. Rubbing his eyes with the palm of his hand, he collapsed on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. He was tired of feeling this way – out-of-control, unable to get his bearings.

A soft knock on the door was all the warning he had before Brennan poked her head in. "Booth?"

He closed his eyes and thought about not answering her, but he knew her tenacity and recalled her earlier vow to keep a close eye on him. "In here, Bones."

"Do you mind if I come in?"

Booth chuckled helplessly. "Nah, come on in. I'm just... thinking."

"You often say that's my part of our job," Brennan said, as teasingly as she knew how.

"Yeah, well, I should definitely leave it to the experts, huh?" He opened one eye at her, and then closed it.

"We are supposed to be preparing to go to an event, Booth." The bed creaked slightly with her weight as she sat down next to him. "Unless you are too tired?"

"Nah." But he didn't move, holding his breath as he felt her hand ghosting over his, just electrical enough so that the hairs on the back of his hand stood up. "I'm ready to rock and roll."

She laughed, deep in her chest. He loved that about her – the way her amusement seemed to sneak up on her before she had time to censure it. "You appear that way, yes."

Booth sighed and opened both of his eyes. "I am tired though, Bones."

She laid down next to him, careful to leave an inch of space between them, her head on the pillow she'd used the night before. "Understandable. We have not been allowed much time to rest these last few days."

"No, we haven't. Come're, Bones." He rolled over onto his side, and drew her in close, so that the spooned, his front to her back. He inhaled the scent of her shampoo. "See, that's nice, isn't it?"

She nuzzled further into her pillow. "I feel as though I could sleep right now."

"Mmmhmm," Booth agreed. "I think we're getting old, Bones."

"We are both aging at a normal rate, which, in this society, puts us far short of old, Booth."

He grinned. "Yeah, you're right."

There was silence for a long moment.

"I was very worried about Parker," Brennan confessed to him. "I – he is very important to me."

"I know, Bones."

"I found comfort in the fact that he is very much like you, however," Brennan said softly.

Booth snorted. "His mother doesn't find that very comforting at all, I'll have you know."

"On the contrary, I think Rebecca would find it very reassuring, as well. He did the right thing. He called you, he was quick on his feet, and he got away. He's very intelligent in the same way you are, Booth."

Booth grinned. "I didn't know you think I'm smart."

"You are very intelligent," Brennan said, rolling over onto her back to look him in the eye. "You would not be as successful as you are without being so."

He traced the line of her cheekbones with his knuckle. "Thanks, Bones."

A look of concern crossed her face. "I do not like that you think I perceive you as inferior, Booth. We're just... different, that's all. My skills may be more rare, but there is no one else I would trust with my life like I trust you."

Something twisted in his gut, settled there. "You don't have to placate me, Bones."

"I'm not. I am telling the truth." She smiled with one corner of her mouth. "Like I always do."

"I want to kiss you," Booth said, his voice low.

"I would not object to that activity," Brennan said. She reached up and fingered his hair. He leaned into that touch and let his face hover over hers for a long moment before he allowed himself the pleasure of touching her lips. He sank into the kiss, putting weight behind it, enjoying the feeling of her lips against his. They both enjoyed it, changing angles every so often, their fingers clasped together. It was good. It was settling. It was real. He trailed his hand up the side of her body, absurdly grateful that she'd worn a skirt. It gave him access to acres of flesh, the warmth of it silky beneath his fingers. She spread her thighs invitingly and the kiss turned from comfort to passion.

Her hips swirled underneath of his, silently communicating exactly what she was feeling, her hands quickly unbuttoning his work shirt all the way and undoing his tie. He buried his hand in her long hair and threaded it between his fingers, arching away from her slightly so that she could accomplish her goal.

Once the dress shirt was gone, it was a matter of pulling his white tee away from his body and discarding it on the floor. Brennan accomplished that swiftly, and rolled him over, straddling his hips with her thighs, running her hands up his chest.

"You have become more muscular," she said, and absurdly, it sent a thrill straight to his groin. There was something about having her analytical brain focused on his physical form that electrified him.

"Thanks, Bones."

"It is very pleasing." She traced the outline of his abdomen, splayed her hands out on his abs and ran them up to his pectoral muscles, thumbing his nipples until they came to life. "I have always found you pleasing to look at, Booth."

"Ditto." She looked at him, confused, and it was all he could do to stop from rolling them over and taking her right then. Instead he settled for pulling her mouth back down to his. She tasted delicious, warm and right.

Then she upped the stakes, grinding her pelvis against his and making him gasp. "I am extremely aroused, Booth."

Booth chuckled. "Ditto again." She swiveled her hips and Booth arched back. "Christ."

"Often, I find I am much more amorous after days like today," she said, her voice calm, but her movements more and more demanding. "For future reference."

"Hey, no complaints from me."

She bent down and drew his earlobe into her mouth. "I would very much like for you to fuck me, Booth."

He couldn't help it. He growled and laughed. "I would very much like that, too."

"I wish we had more time," Brennan said.

"That's right." Booth hissed. "We've got a – uh, dance to go to."

"Yes." Brennan sighed, and stopped. "I do not mean to make promises with my body that I cannot follow through on, Booth."

He grinned at her. "I consider that a preview. For tonight. If... that's okay."

Brennan leaned down, and kissed him fully. "That is satisfactory."

"Not yet, Bones. But it will be."

* * *

The Jeffersonian was eerily half-lit, most of the staff already gone home, but Cam had been a workaholic for most of her adult life and saw no reason to stop now. She was typing a report when the computer beeped at her.

A knock at the door took her attention away from the computer and she lifted her head. "Come on in."

"I thought I would offer my apology again in person."

Cam stiffened. "Doctor Lidner, it's nice to see you."

"I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd stop by." The doctor stood awkwardly in the doorway. "Do you still want me to come in?"

She sighed and closed her eyes. "Yeah, sure."

"I'm... I... that is. I was wondering if I could take you to a late supper."

"Are you sure?" Cam crossed her arms in front of her chest.

"I was an ass." Lidner took a step closer to her. "I thought maybe if I saw you in person – told you, you know..."

"You made it abundantly clear just how sorry you are." Cam shrugged. "It's just – you know, we both should have known better. We were both at fault. We both have demanding careers..."

"Yeah, we do." He stepped even closer to her. "But that doesn't have to matter if we don't let it. We can be adults about this, Camille."

She laughed and ducked her head. "Don't call me Camille."

"Okay." He grinned widely at her. "Will you give us another shot? We both deserve this, you know."

Cam tapped a few keys while she thought it over. "My job isn't going to get less stressful."

"Yeah, and women aren't going to stop having health crises." Lidner shrugged his shoulders. "But we both know that. We just can't get scared when it gets serious again."

Cam sighed. "Let me think about it." Her eyes widened at what she saw on the screen. "That... can't be right."

"What?" Lidner's eyes widened.

"Blood analysis from our second crime scene. The sample had a lot of the same genetic markers as our first victim."

"Same person?" Lidner asked. "How is that possible?"

"No, take a look." She turned the screen to him. "Not the same person. But... very possibly one of his children. I'm sorry. I'm going to have to make a phone call."

He smiled. "Of course. Uh, raincheck?"

"You know what?" She cocked her head to the side. "All right."

"See you, Camille." He was out the door before she could correct him again. She shook her head.

* * *

Brennan found herself hyper-aware of Booth as they rode together to the bar where the dance was being held. He'd changed into jeans and a black button-down shirt, which was open at the collar, and he'd stopped short when he'd seen _her_ outfit. She changed into jeans, as well, and a comfortable blouse that dropped low over her breasts and flared out over the sleeves. His attention was _very _gratifying.

Their hands found each other, and grasped loosely as Booth followed Mrs. Hoake's directions into a small town their investigation hadn't taken them to yet. They stopped at the main block of the town and parked in front of a row of plankboard buildings. The party was already in full swing, children running outside and the sound of rock and roll pumping from the browned windows.

As they walked to the building, which had once been the high school gym, their hands swung together, and Brennan wondered, once again, if this was something that she'd missed out on as a teenager – walking with a boyfriend, hand in hand, completely comfortable, with a tingle in the pit of her stomach. She'd described Kathy having that reaction to Andy before, but somehow the actual sensation was better than anything she'd imagined.

"Aren't you two just sweet?" Mrs. Hoake asked, linking arms with a worried-looking Sweets. "Come on, young man, take me inside and buy me a drink."

"Hey Dad," Parker said, "There's a bunch of kids over at the basketball court. Can I go?"

Booth's forehead wrinkled, and Brennan could tell that he was weighing the pros and cons of letting Parker out of his sight. He squeezed her hand. "Yeah, sure, bub. Just..."

"I'll check in later." Parker waved and took off.

"Jesus," Booth breathed. "I'm going to blink and he'll be a teenager, won't he?"

Brennan shrugged. "That is not actually factual, but... I can agree with the sentiment. It seems that my perception of Parker's growth is that has gone very quickly."

He smiled at her, one of those smiles that had become so common after they'd confronted Sweets about his book, nothing like his real smile, that seemed to blossom across his face. This was a smile to hide heartbreak.

"Children growing up isn't sad, Booth. He's a kind-hearted, resourceful pre-adolescent. You have done a good job parenting him."

"Yeah. It's just – you miss when they were young, you know?" Booth shook himself.

"It'll be nice to see what kind of person he becomes, however." Desperate to wipe the pain and worry from his eyes, she leaned over and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

Startled, he turned to grin at her, and Brennan couldn't help the feeling of victory that spread across her chest.

Inside, the gym was bustling with activity. A jukebox was playing in the corner, and a few people danced, but a bandstand was set up with instruments waiting for musicians. On one wall was the bar, offering soft drinks for the children and a variety of alcohol for the adults. Tables were set up, and older generations sat at them, playing court, it seemed, for the younger folks that stopped to say hello to relatives and acquaintances.

It was extremely interesting on an anthropological level, Brennan decided, a little lost in observing the behavior around her. Booth tugged on her hand and gestured at the bar, a tolerant smile on his face. She flushed to be caught lost in her own head.

"You want a drink, Bones?"

"Yes, please. It is hot in here." It was, but she was only just now realizing it. The humidity hadn't let up outside, and it was stuffy inside, giant fans hanging from the ceiling rotating slowly and ineffectually. Her blouse stuck to her skin, and Booth was perspiring as well, a trail of sweat showing up on the back of his shirt.

"That man is a cool drink of water," Mrs. Hoake said, gesturing at a table. "Why don't you sit and have a rest while Special Agent Booth gets you your drink?"

"Thank you."

"I have to warn you, they're about to descend."

"Who?"

"Everyone," Mrs. Hoake said with a gentle smile. "We don't get a lot of FBI agents and forensic scientists out here, Dr. Brennan."

"Temperance is fine," Brennan said, surprising herself, but she couldn't keep up the barrier of formality with the woman in front of her.

"Well, then," Mrs. Hoake said, accepting a tall Long Island iced tea from Sweets. "Temperance, you're about to be grilled."

A slew of women and men from all across the county stopped by the table, as much to say hello to Mrs. Hoake as to talk to Brennan and Booth. It was a pleasant evening, and Brennan kept her eyes open for the Rettingers. After a few minutes, she caught the whole family walking in through the door.

She was about to rise to her feet when Booth handed her a glass of wine. "Booth, the Rettingers have just arrived."

"I know. Hebrew just waved at me, I think they're on their way over."

"The family that owns the farm where all the bodies were found?" Sweets asked.

"They're lovely people," Mrs. Hoake said firmly.

"Yes, that's them," Booth said, with a half-smile.

Helen and Hebrew approached their table, and Sweets and Mrs. Hoake excused themselves. "I see you've already got drinks, or we'd offer to buy you a round," Hebrew started.

Booth tilted his head. "Thanks for the offer."

"We thought we'd say hi, and ask what the progress on the investigation is," Helen said, her hand wrapped firmly in Hebrew's.

"We're following up on leads," Booth said. "We have a question. Either one of you folks ever have any dealings with Jessica Flint? Formerly Jessica Hubbard?"

"Yeah – she went to school with my youngest sister," Helen said. "Is everything okay?"

"Yeah," Booth said, shrugging his shoulders. "Everything's fine."

"You know, she called the house the other day asking for you," Hebrew volunteered. "I guess I forgot about it because it just seemed so random."

"Really?" Booth's eyebrows raised. "Did she say what she wanted?"

Hebrew shook his head. "No, just asked for Helen. I figured she had a question about the Fireman's Day fund. I told her to call back later."

"Booth," Brennan hissed.

"Jessica Flint is wanted for murder," Booth said in a low tone. "We have reason to believe she may be targeting your family, Mrs. Rettinger. We've got a few cops already keeping an eye on you but until she makes a direct threat there's not much else we can do."

Hebrew tensed. "Do you think..."

"She's not dumb enough to show up on a night like tonight," Booth said evenly. "Don't get trigger happy, but you might want to keep an eye on your wife, Mr. Rettinger. Don't let her go anywhere alone, if you know what I mean."

He nodded, and drew Helen away from Booth and Brennan. They sat in silence for a long moment.

"Do you think Jessica Flint is really after her?"

"I don't know, Bones. Seems as good as any other Dorothy, don't you think?"

"Bones?" Brennan lifted her head, and saw Parker, with Mrs. Hoake standing right behind him. The band was warming up on the bandstand, and they burst into an energetic rendition of Hard Day's Night.

"Hey Parker," Bones said with a smile.

"Do you wanna dance?"

Mrs. Hoake was beaming and Brennan could tell she'd put the little boy up to it. "Did you play basketball with the other children?"

"Yeah, but... I wanted to check in." Parker shook his curls in an "I don't know" gesture that was purely his father and Brennan's heart melted.

"I would very much enjoy dancing with you, then."

They walked out on the dance floor, and indulged in silly dance moves with everyone around them. Parker found her version of the windmill hilarious, and he showed her a hip-hop step one of his friends had shown him that went surprisingly well with the music.

After Parker, there were a number of other men who wanted her attention, and she found herself dancing with several other farmers, all of them browned by the sun, but gentle with her as they twisted and two-stepped her around the floor.

Then the lead singer of the band stepped up to the microphone. "Here's a slow one for you." There was a pause, then a flam from the snare drum and he opened his mouth. "Oh darlin'," he sang, "please believe me..."

Booth tapped her on the shoulder. "Can I have this one?"

"Yes," she said, smiling. She fit right in his arms, laying her head on his shoulder as guided them around the floor. The man sang about reconciliation and love and heartbreak, and Brennan breathed in Booth's scent.

"I never meant you no harm," the lead singer wailed.

"This is good," Booth said, and kissed the top of her head. "This is really good, Bones."

She smiled.


	17. Seventeen: Which Old Witch?

**Chapter Seventeen: Which Old Witch? The Wicked Witch!**

Parker watched his dad and Bones circle the dance floor, swaying together to the music. Their eyes were both shut and they held each other close. He tapped his foot and considered getting some punch. It was kind of boring in the gymnasium, and super hot, and being out in the open had started to freak him out a little. He'd had the sensation that someone was watching him.

He started for the punchbowl, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him. He whirled around, certain, for a moment, that the woman who had chased him at the creek was touching him. "Hey!"

But the hand belonged to a young woman he didn't recognize. She looked down and blushed. "Sorry, I didn't mean to frighten you."

"Oh, uh... that's okay." Parker looked around for Mrs. Hoake or maybe his dad, but after a moment, he steeled himself. This lady wasn't his attacker, and he wasn't scared of people he didn't know. At least – he never had been before.

"I'm Carrie Williams," she said with a smile. "Are you Agent Booth's son?"

Parker flashed her a broad smile. "Yeah. If you're looking for him, he's over there dancing with Bones."

Carrie lifted an eyebrow. "Bones?"

"That's what we call Dr. Brennan." Parker fidgeted. Something about her made him very uncomfortable, and Dad had always said to trust his instincts. "I've got to go, Dr. Sweets wants to see me."

She smiled. "You look very much like your father, has anyone ever told you that?"

"Most of the time people say I look like my mom." Parker started to walk off, but Carrie grabbed his arm.

"I hear you had quite the adventure this afternoon." Her face was all sympathy, but there was something wrong with her eyes, Parker decided. "I'm sorry. You should never have to see anything that terrifying that young."

"I hit her over the head." Parker yanked his arm away. "I'll be fine."

"Of course you will." Carrie smiled gently.

Parker shuddered as he walked away, finding Dr. Sweets among the crowd, sighing with relief when he sat down next to the doctor. Lance didn't even look up when he greeted Parker, just continued to watch Dad and Bones do their weird dancing thing.

"What's up, Parker?"

Before he could stop himself, words tumbled out of his mouth. "Am I going to turn into some kind of paranoid freak?"

"What?" Suddenly Lance's full attention was on Parker, and that was a little uncomfortable. Parker looked away.

"Like, am I always going to be scared and stuff?"

"No." Lance didn't even hesitate, which was nice, but it made Parker a bit nervous. "You want to know how I'm sure of that?"

It was a little bit weird how sometimes Lance knew what he was thinking before he did. "How?"

"Because you're not paranoid. Paranoia means that your fear doesn't make sense."

"Doctor Hodgins says it's not paranoia if they really are out to get you."

Lance sighed. "Well, yes, that's true, I suppose. The point is, Parker, that you actually were attacked. Your natural instincts are going to be in overdrive for a few days, and then you'll calm down."

"Yeah. I guess so." Parker shrugged. "I don't like it."

"I can understand that. It probably feels like you aren't in control of yourself, right?"

"I guess so." Parker shifted in his seat.

"Those instincts are a good thing, though. We have them for a reason. You should always act reasonably on your instincts to make yourself safe."

"Do you think that's why Dad's still alive?"

"What?"

"Dad. He's always getting shot or going off to war and he never gets scared."

"Your Dad has had all kinds of training that teaches him what to do in all of those situations, and you know what?"

"What?"

"He gets scared." Lance looked up and waved to the approaching partners. "Hey Agent Booth, Dr. Brennan."

"You guys danced _forever_," Parker said, rolling his eyes in an effort to cover up the uneasiness that still had his insides all twisted up. But he caught the expression on Lance's face – the one that told him it was okay to do what would make him feel better, and he hugged his dad.

* * *

Donaldson let the door to the hotel room shut behind him, already half asleep. It had taken forever to process the crime scene, and he had a stack of paperwork half a mile high to complete and send to Agent Booth. He tossed his suit jacket on the badly upholstered maroon chair and loosened his tie before he yanked his shirt from his waistband.

Grabbing the remote, he flipped the TV on for background noise while he dragged himself to the shower. The grating tones of a female popstar who whined more than sang were just irritating enough to keep him awake.

He stepped under the spray and braced himself with one hand against the wall, closing his eyes. The door to his bathroom sprung open with a bang and he nearly jumped out of his skin.

"What the _fuck_! Quentin! How did you get in here?"

"Sorry, Donaldson. I lifted your key earlier," she wiggled her fingers. "Old habit. It's just that there's an urgent call for you. You're going to want to take it." Quentin's eyes never strayed from his face, but Donaldson flushed anyway.

"Could you get out of my bathroom for a second, please?"

"Certainly. Phone's on the counter," she said, giving him a wink. "Don't worry, I didn't see anything."

"Oh yeah," Donaldson muttered, "_that_ makes me feel better." He stepped out of the shower and grabbed the phone. "Agent Donaldson."

"This is Forrest, from the KC Field Office. We thought you and your supervisor might like to know that Mrs. Williams has reported her daughter Carrie Williams missing two hours ago."

Donaldson paused. "Is there any chance that she's our next victim?"

"I don't know. Just thought I should pass that on. We're trying to track her down here, but her cell phone's off and there's no credit card activity for the past twenty-four hours."

"I'll call Booth and let him know."

"You do that, Agent Donaldson. We'll continue to work this as a missing persons case."

"Keep us apprised of things on your end. We'll work the angle that she's another victim."

The phone disconnected and Donaldson cursed, reaching for his towel to wrap around his waist in case Quentin was camped out in his bedroom. Thankfully, she wasn't, and he was able to don boxers and a pair of pants before there was a knocking at his door.

He threw on a t-shirt and answered it. "Come on in, Quentin."

"The naked look was good, but this is significantly less awkward," Quentin said cheerfully.

"Yeah, I thought so too," Donaldson mumbled, ushering her in while reaching for his phone. "I've got to get Agent Booth on the phone and let him know that Carrie Williams is missing."

"The Senator's daughter?"

Donaldson nodded. "That's the one."

"I did some research on her. Well, I did some research on everyone in this case. You guys know she was estranged from her father, right?"

"No, I don't think that came up," Donaldson said.

"Oh yeah. It was fairly common knowledge in her sorority that she hated his guts."

"Wait. How do you know this?"

Quentin grinned. "She's a tri-Delt. I was a Zeta Tau Alpha, but you know Greeks, we tend to stick together."

"Oh God."

"Don't say that until I've amazed you further, Grumpypants. She was also kicked out of her sorority."

"Why?"

"Couldn't get along with her roommate, it turns out. Her roommate, years later, still says she's some sort of sociopath."

"Maybe Senator Williams has got a crazy gene he's passing on to all of his children," Donaldson said, rolling his eyes. "We haven't encountered a sane one yet. Well... Helen Rettinger seems nice enough."

"You'd think so, but if you dig a little deeper you'll find that's not the case at all," Quentin said. "She's got a wonderful life now, of course, but as a teenager she had some real issues. She was hospitalized, briefly, for bi-polar depression."

"Well, her mother had that." Donaldson said. "So we've got a whole family that's rife with mental illness, and we don't know where two of them are."

"We can't only that any one of them had anything to do with the murders we're investigating," Quentin said pragmatically.

"True enough. I've got to get Booth on the phone - he's going to want to know. Not much he can do about it from the middle of nowhere, but he's going to want to know."

* * *

The Rettingers piled into the old Ford pick-up truck they'd taken to the dance and headed out of town. It was a bit early, but they hadn't really felt festive. Three murder victims found on their property in a week had dampened their spirits, and was taking a definite toll on the family.

"They think I had something to do with it," Helen said, fiddling with the hem of her shirt as Hebrew steered them down the highway. "I can see in their eyes that they think I had something to do with it."

"Objectively, it makes sense, Mom," Hank said. "But they can't do anything with what they think. They're going to need proof."

"Been watching Law and Order again, loser?" Hal asked. "Come on, the real world's not like a TV show. This FBI guy has to blame somebody and tidy it up fast. A Senator's dead. There's going to be a lot of people who are going to want someone to take the blame for all of this."

"Boys, you are not being helpful," Hebrew said firmly, "and if you don't have anything helpful to say, I would appreciate you not saying anything at all. Your mother and I have enough on our minds as it is without adding any more worry."

Hank crossed his arms and stared out the window. "I'm just saying: they need proof. That one lady is a scientist... they aren't supposed to leap to conclusions."

"Yeah, but they do it all the time," Hal countered.

"I meant what I said, boys. We can talk about something else or we can all ride home in silence. What would you prefer?"

For several minutes, there was a moody silence in the pick-up as they bounced over the patched road. Helen cleared her throat. "So. Did you boys have a good time tonight?"

They mumbled some kind of response, and Hebrew interrupted. "Helen, that car's following pretty close, don't you think?"

"Well now, that's odd," Helen said, glancing over at the speedometer. "You're going five over."

"Could be one of those hot-shot FBI guys that think they can take these roads at eighty-five," Hebrew said. "I wish he'd get off my tail, though."

"You could pull over," Helen said, fiddling with the radio.

"Whoa," Hebrew shook his head, his eyes firmly fixed on the rearview mirror. "That's way too close, buddy. Back up." He tapped on the brakes, and that was where it got out of control.

The car following them sped up and they felt the collision rattle through the vehicle. Helen slammed forward, her head meeting the dashboard violently. The boys were tossed about in the backseat, and Hebrew hit the steering wheel. They spun off the road and overturned in a ditch. The pick-up wobbled on its side, teetered, and flipped. Seconds of screaming metal and shouting faded away to complete silence. Hebrew coughed and came back to consciousness. "Everyone okay?"

"Hal and I are fine, Dad," Hank said. "What about you and Mom?"

"I think I'm okay," Hebrew said, and looked over at Helen. "Helen, are you all right?" She didn't respond, her head lolling forward, hanging limp. He looked back at the boys in panic. "Either one of you have your cell phones? Call for help. Helen? Helen?"

The door opened to the passenger side of the truck, and Hebrew was about to breathe a sigh of relief when he heard the distinct sound of a cocking gun and saw the barrel of a hunting rifle pointed at his sons' heads.

"Don't move." The voice was low, but probably female. Hebrew nodded slowly. "We're just here to take our sister. Nobody else has to get hurt."

"Hey, that's our mom!"

"Boys, shut up," Hebrew said softly. "We can work something else out. You can have anything you want. I don't have much cash on me, but..."

"Oh please. Like we'd run you off the road just to take your money. This isn't New York."

"We could just kill them," another voice suggested. "We could string them up like Munchkins from a tree."

"We stick to the plan." The cold metal of the gun rested against Hebrew's brow now. "Don't move while we retrieve Helen."

The other voice began to giggle madly. "Oh, sis, she's really bleeding."

"She's been in a car wreck, dear. That happens. You really ought to be more careful when you drive."

Helen was lifted up and out of the car by the crazy woman with the giggle, and Hebrew struggled against his seatbelt.

"Now, now. Stay still. We were going to go about this in a more subtle way, but... well, our time has become... precious. And I am terribly sorry about this, but..." Hebrew felt something sharp against his temple, and then he saw nothing but blackness.

* * *

"Carrie Williams has gone missing."

Brennan looked up from where she was removing her shoes. "The senator's daughter that we interviewed a few days ago?"

"Yesterday. Seems like it's been longer than that, though, right?"

"Yes." Brennan sighed. "Do they have any leads?"

"Cell phone's off, no credit card activity, but no ransom note or communication from kidnappers of any kind."

Brennan shook her head. "Is it possible that we're too late and the killer has already taken her Dorothy?"

"I hope not. We've got people all over the state looking for her." Booth collapsed on the bed next to her, laying flat on his back and staring up at the ceiling. "You know what it's like, Bones?"

"It's impossible to predict your analogies, however, I find the surprise to be the most pleasurable part of our conversation."

Booth raised his eyebrows but smiled. "Thanks."

"You're welcome. What it's like, Booth?"

"It's like we're playing black jack against the house."

Brennan smiled, remembering, for one moment, the sight and sounds and feel of Vegas, and the way it had felt to be Roxie. "It's impossible to win, if you play for a length of time, against the house."

"Exactly. Can't catch a break, Bones, that's the trouble."

She rubbed her foot with both hands. "I should go back over the files - I wish I had access to the bones. They could probably tell me something - there's got to be something I've missed, and now with another woman's life on the line..."

"I hate to call them in the middle of the night, but maybe we ought to call everyone at home, too. Maybe there's something we're missing."

Booth's phone rang again. "This is getting ridiculous," he said to Bones with an eyeroll. "Special Agent Seeley Booth. Oh hey, Sheriff. Got good news for me?"

His eyebrows knit together. "Yeah, okay. Thanks. Right."

"What is it, Booth?" Brennan asked as he hung up.

"Get your shoes back on, Bones. The Rettingers have just been run off the road, and whoever did it took Helen Rettinger."


End file.
